


Haunted

by klahiie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ghost Sex, Ghost!Lock, Ghost!Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Male Slash, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 112,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klahiie/pseuds/klahiie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after the loss of his beloved wife Mary, John is evicted from his home and forced to move in with his sister Harriet. After a month he finds a nice little house along the outskirts of Bristol by the Sand Bay. But he won't be living alone. </p>
<p>Pairings: Johnlock. Sex in future chapters. One shot story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 

The sky loomed overhead, gray and menacing as droplets fell from the heavens. He stood vacantly beneath the dismal clouds, the sound of the heavy rain pittering against the cloth canvas of his umbrella sounding like a drumming knoll in the back of his mind as his eyes gazed across the fancy writing on the front of the gray marble in front of him, turning an almost black color as the water hit it's hard surface.

Mary Watson

1980-2012

His heart heaved a bit, his fingers numb against the chilled air. How many times did he come here? How many times did he dress up in his best clothes and cart an umbrella just to stand for countless hours in the rain and cold, staring at the same stone?

He adverted his eyes, his tongue gliding across his dry lips. He wondered what she would have said if she saw him. No, he knew what she would say. She would tell him that he needed to move on, that he needed to stop tormenting himself and attempt to move on with his life, but he could. He felt like he was trapped in an infinite loop. Getting up, showering, getting dressed and coming here to see her. For an entire year, that's all he'd done; it wasn't a surprise to him when he lost his job four months prior.

Swallowing hard he looked up at the sky, praying that she was there, that she was looking down over him, but deep down inside, he knew she wasn't. Removing his other wind bitten hand from his pocket he reached up, closing the umbrella and tucking it away under his arm. He closed his eyes against the rain, letting the freezing droplets his his cheeks and forehead with their freezing bite. It was the first real sensation he'd felt since the death of his beloved wife. Perhaps it was a sign that some change was going to happen, and it sent a flood of relief through him as he opened his eyes again.

"I'll visit you soon." He said, looking down at the headstone. Carefully he stepped forward, making sure not to tread where she would be laying and pressed his lips to the top of the stone. He held it there for a minute, making sure his kiss would travel throughout the grave to her before pulling away, making his way back to where he'd parked his car. He spared a single glance back before climbing in and pulling away, heading for home.

He didn't play music in the car as he drove, he stopped doing that when Mary had died. Every time he'd played it a song that reminded him of her would play. It was too much to bare, so he turned it off.

He didn't look at the scenery as he drove, only keeping his eye on the traffic as he emerged into the busier parts of the city. No glances at the shops, or the people. No gazing at the boats over the River Thames as he drove along it's edge. Instead he kept his eyes on the road ahead as he made his way through the city to his home.

He pulled into the driveway and climbed out, running his hand through his cold, damp hair. He shut the door behind him and made his way up the walkway and to the front door but stopped. Taped on the door was a little white sheet of paper that held the words "Eviction Notice." He sighed, his teeth gritting across his bottom lip as he dragged a hand down his face. He was surprised that his landlord had let him go this long without paying the rent, but still, he was upset. Grabbing the piece of paper he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Placing the paper on the counter top he debated on whether or not he should pack up and get things squared away to find a new place to live, or if he should pay his landlord back. Both him and Mary paid the rent on the place, it was expensive to dish it out of pocket alone, and knowing his landlord he would be expecting him to pay it back in full. John couldn't do that.

Pushing away from the counter he turned and made his way for his bedroom, starting to pack up his things. He had already started a few months earlier -packing up the stuff that reminded him of Mary to be put in storage- but now it seemed like his plans had changed, and his landlord was kind enough to give him a couple of weeks to do so.

John didn't have much stuff, most of it was big -like his bed and his sofa and television. He was able to pack up most of his clothes and randoms in a couple of hours. Now all he had to do was find a place to live until he could get a job.

Sitting on the foot of the bed him and Mary once shared together, he fished his phone from his pocket and carefully thumbed it, flipping it over and over again in his hand. The name Harry kept popping up, flashing in his face. He didn't want to call his sister. He didn't want to talk to her right now, but he only had a couple of weeks left to live in his home and he needed somewhere to go. At least until he found himself a job and an affordable place to live out on his own.

He stared at the phone for a long moment, his mind going blank. Then with a defeated sigh he thumbed through the phone book and clicked on Harriet's name. The phone rang once or twice before he actually put it to his ear, waiting for her to pick up -which was on the third or fourth ring.

"Hello?" She greeted into the phone, the sound of running water in the background. Her lack of Hi John was an indication that she actually didn't look at the caller I.D before answering. John chewed on his bottom lip a bit, his elbows rested against his legs as he looked around the mostly empty bedroom. It's cream colored walls and white carpet looking dull in the gray lighting from the lack of sun.

"Hi, Harriet." He greeted in return, trying to hide the defeated tone in his voice. This had been the first time since Mary's funeral that he'd spoken to her and the guilt for avoiding her was beginning to creep back in.

"John!" She shouted, shocked to hear from her brother on his own accord. "How are you? Is everything alright?" She questioned, turning the water off. The sound of a metal spoon clanking to the inside of a cup caught his attention.

"Not really." He rested his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What's wrong?" She questioned, everything falling silent on her end.

"I'm losing my house." He muttered in return, his guilt turning into embarrassment as he admitted his situation.

"Uh oh."

"Yeah." He sighed. "I hate having to ask you for this...but...you wouldn't happen to have a room available, would you?" He rests his chin on his hand, his fingers pressed against his lips as he waited for her to answer.

"Oh, of course! Clara and I are taking a bit of a break from each other so it'll just be you and I. It's not a heated fight just...I said some stupid things and she went to visit her mother. You know." She replied.

"Yeah, I know how it is." He agreed, his eyes closing. He didn't want to be there if her and Clara were in an argument, but he didn't have a choice. "I'll start sending things your way. See you in a couple of days."

"Alright," He carefully pulled the phone away from his ear but stopped when she spoke, hollering a bit. "Oh, and John!" He put the phone back to his ear, his forehead crinkled, hoping he didn't accidentally hang up on her. "I'm really glad to hear from you." And with that, she hung up, leaving him baffled on the other end of the phone.

Swallowing hard he pulled the phone from his ear and hit the end button just to be sure. Looking up he rested his eyes on the empty walls that used to have portraits on them, and the dresser that used to hold Mary's Jewelry and small knickknacks, and the end stand that once held two alarm clocks on his side of the bed so she would have an excuse to reach over him and plant a kiss on the side of his head as she turned it off.

He choked back the tears, blinking rapidly against them. Pushing himself to his feet he left the bedroom and made his way downstairs. Now that he had his living situation out of the way for now, it was time to get back onto his normal schedule that he'd followed religiously for the past year.

Grabbing a bottle of whiskey and a glass he poured himself a drink and slugged it down, the burn welcoming. It was going to be a long couple weeks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After losing his house John finally moves in with Clara and Harry but makes it very obvious that he isn't planning on staying long when he only unpacks his clothes and his laptop for the purpose of searching for a house. During dinner he tells Clara what kind of house he's looking for and she gives him details, but Harry tells him not to choose that house and for very specific reason.

Chapter 2

 

It took a few trips back and forth from Bristol to Westminster, carting his belongings too and from Harry's house. On the first trip, he was surprised to have been met by Clara with open arms. He smiled as he climbed out of the moving truck and hugged his sister in law tightly, swaying back and forth a bit. As Clara moved away, Harry moved in to claim a hug from her brother as well, kissing the side of his head.

“We have the room all set up for you.” She said, resting her chin on his shoulder as she held onto him. It had been a year without seeing or hearing from him. She'd been worried that he'd done something stupid in the midst of his grieving and ended up killing himself. He had no idea just how relieved she was.

“Ok, thank you.” He replied back, his chin resting on her shoulder as well. Although he had made it his point not to call her, now that he actually had, he felt a bit better. But just like every time something made him happy, he didn't expect it to last long. After a few moments they pulled away, looking at each other without saying a word. Turning he picked up some of his bags as Harry did and they carried them into the house. “So, Clara's still here.” He mused after they entered the house, making sure his sister in law was out of earshot.

“Yeah, after you called I couldn't help but call her. She wanted to see you so she came back.” Harry replied, carrying his stuff upstairs. John followed her, doubling up on his belongings to cut down on the number of trips.

“That's good.” John agreed as he reached the top of the stairs. He looked around the hallway, the photos that they'd had had been removed -possibly during a fight or something. He bit his lip, looking at his sister as she dragged his stuff down the hall and into the spare guest room. There was already a bed and a dresser in there. It was just enough for him to get comfortable, though he wasn't planning on living there long. “Do you know of any job openings around?” He asked as he followed her.

“John,” She turned after putting his stuff on the floor. She watched him enter after, putting his belongings in the corner so they wouldn't take up space. He carefully opened his suitcase, pulling out some of his clothes. He didn't waste much time as he stuff them into the large 5 drawer, oak dresser pushed up against the wall. When she didn't say anything he stopped, looking up at her.

“Hm?” His eyebrows raised before dropping again, catching an expression that concerned her. She looked exhausted and worried, but there was something else. “Harry?”

“You don't have to run right out and find a job you know.” She turned, looking away from him as she started rummaging through his belongings, looking for more clothes. “You can relax a little while. Try to...watch out for yourself before you throw yourself back out there to the wolves.” She didn't look up at him, her thin light brown hair falling over her shoulders.

Harriet had always been a pretty girl. Pale with light brown hair in the summer, and dark brown in the winter. Her blue eyes were much more vibrant than his and she was thin. She didn't have to work to be thin either. She dressed professionally in light blue button up shirts and black slacks. She never was one for heels, always flats or sneakers. Rarely did she ever wear dresses. Growing up he had to admit John had teased her for being flat -sporting only an A cup for most of her life, now only having a smaller B- but she was well proportioned. Until you got to her back side. Her ass always had been and probably always will be large.

“Oh, no I know.” He turned, tucking his clothes away into the dresser. “I just...I want to get it over with. If I start now I might have one in a few months, you know?” He forced a chuckle. She stopped, looking at him, her lips pressed in a concerned manner.

“Come here.” She grabbed his bags she'd placed on the bed and laid them on the floor. He stopped, looking at her confused until she motioned him closer with a swish of her hand. Standing stiffly he walked over and sat on the bed beside her. “Listen, I know that you're going to disapprove of this, but Mary set up this...account.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She said that if anything happened to her that I was to take you and get you access to this account.” She grabbed his hand, pulling it away from his face. He looked up at her, his jaw clenched tight. “She didn't let you know about it because she said that you would have told her not to even bother because nothing would happen. But she opened it just shortly after your honeymoon and every week she put 100 dollars into it, minimum. This was supposed to help you pay for anything you needed until you felt you could find work again.”

“Why didn't you tell me this sooner?” John questioned, trying to keep a civil tone.

“Because you cut off all ties with me after the funeral John. Do you know how many times I called you?” She shot back. “I was worried sick, I thought you'd gone off and killed yourself, your money was the last thing on my mind especially not after my diagnosis-” She stopped, looking as if she'd said too much. She pinched her bottom lip in between her top and bottom teeth, looking down at her hands.

“Diagnosis?” John's forehead crinkled, his heart racing a bit. “What diagnosis?” She didn't look at him, keeping her head down. "Harry, what diagnosis?" He questioned, trying to keep his voice level and sturdy. He wasn't completely successful as his voice rose a bit, breaking.

"A week ago I began getting sick often. So I went to the hospital and they ran some tests." She forced a smile, looking up at the wall. "I have cancer. The tumors spread to my lung and my stomach but they can't find the primary tumor." She explained. "I start Chemo at the beginning of this week." He stared at her, feeling ice run through his veins. He groaned, covering his face with his hands. He had been ignoring her all of this time...he didn't even know.

"How is Clara handling it?" He questioned, his words muffled by his hands.

"She doesn't know." Harry admitted, resting her elbows on her legs. "We got into that argument about a month ago, we hadn't talked or seen each other much since then."

"So you didn't tell her?" John was surprised. "Harry, tell her! She's your wife for god's sake! Don't wait until you can't do anything about it to tell her!" He rose his voice a bit. Her head whipped around, looking back at the door to make sure that Clara hadn't heard before hissing.

"Shut up numbskull!" He realized that he'd been practically shouting and looked at her apologetically, also looking back at the door to see of Clara had heard it or not.

"Harry," John continued, his voice low. "If you tell her she'll understand why you've been so snippy. She'll blame the cancer for the argument you two had and this whole thing can end. Just tell her and spend as much time with her as possible." He insisted, his hand grabbing her shoulder. “Please, just...tell her.” She looked up at him, seeing pain and fear in her eyes. Looking down she nodded, reaching up to rest her own hand on his.

“I'll tell her.” She whispered finally. “But right now.” She stood up and walked around the bed, heading for the door. “I need to contact the bank and see if they can't get you to claim that money.” She looked back at him, resting her shoulder against the hard wood of the door frame.

“Just...how much is in there?” He asked, looking back at her curiously.

“They didn't send you a bank notice when you called the bank and told them she died?” Harry's forehead wrinkled, an eyebrow cocked. “They...didn't hand it over to you to claim?”

“No,” He shook his head. “Or...maybe, I don't know. I probably threw the bank statement away.” He put his face in his hands again, rubbing his eyes. She looked at him apologetically, her eyes dropping from him to the floor. She nodded.

“Alright, well, I'll try to get a total for you. Just...relax ok?” She pulled away from the door frame and turned on her heel, heading down the hallway. “Dinner will be done at six, wifi password is Benedict, same as always if you want to hook your laptop up.” And with that she was gone. John sat there on the edge of the bed, his eyes focused on the wall. Harry was sick, that was why she looked so pale.

Groaning he laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He felt absolutely terrible for avoiding contact with her for so long, but in his defense how was he supposed to know that his sister had cancer? Yet again, it was that same thinking that landed Mary in a grave. He closed his eyes, his heart beginning to beat again, wrenching in his chest as he thought back to his wife. He wished that he could have done something for her. Anything.

He felt tears start to well up behind his eyelids, and that was when he decided to get up. He needed to keep himself occupied, if he didn't he'd end up a sobbing mess in a borrowed bedroom. And that would be embarrassing.

Walking over to his belongings he began rummaging through his bags. Finding his laptop cord he pulled it out then went over to his laptop bag. Pulling it out he placed it on a small desk on the opposite side of the room and plugged it in. He turned and began putting his clothes away as the laptop turned on, going through it's updates and configurations so that by the time he was done it would be ready to go.

Pulling out the chair he sat at his laptop and brought up his browser. His blog was saved as his homepage. The last thing he had updated was the story of the death of Mary. For a year his blog had gone unattended, no updates, no comments or messages were read. He'd completely ignored them. Biting his lip he went to Google's main page and started looking for real-estate. He didn't want a house that was too big, but he didn't want a studio flat located in the city. He wanted to be kind of secluded, out and alone where no one would bother him, but not so far out that he would have to dive for hours to get to civilization.

After searching for a couple of hours without much luck he closed his laptop and stood up, heading downstairs to socialize. He took the stairs carefully, not in any hurry, his eyes gliding across the paintings used to decorate the walls. When his feet hit the stairs he turned. The living room was empty, but the sound of both Clara's and voice were heard from the kitchen, the smell of dinner cooking reaching his nose. Cabbage rolls he guessed. It was always what Harriet made for him when either one of them visited the other.

"How long is John staying for?" Clara asked, sitting at the table sipping at her coffee. She had strawberry blonde hair and freckles. She was a petite girl, shorter than he was but thicker than Harry. Full figured? She had brown eyes and a charming smile. She wore more dresses than pants, and what she wore was normally very light in color and lacy. Neither of them looked like a lesbian, but that was the fault of stereotyping. Someone who looked like a lesbian could hate women, and a man who looked gay could be straight. And that was perfectly ok.

"As long as he wants I guess." Harry said from the stove, whipping up some vegetables. A loaf of bread was cooking in the oven. John couldn't help but smile. Before Harry had met Clara she never showed any interest in cooking. It was always canned soups and restaurants. Instant meals. Clara fancied a sit down at home to going out and eating. She was always more fond of bonding over a home cooked meal. It was nice to see Harry had learned something from her. "He seems eager to leave though." Harry added, pulling away from the stove to wash off her utensils she no longer needed. "At least if he finds a place close to here we can visit more."

"And you're welcome to." John spoke up. Both of the girls turned, looking back at him shocked but smiled.

"Eavesdropping? Isn't that rude?" Harry tossed a hand towel at him, grinning.

"It's not eavesdropping if the person who's talking is talking loud enough for the neighbors to hear." He smiled, pulling the hand towel off of his shoulder and folding it up. He placed it on the island behind Harry and leaned against it.

"So I hear you're looking for a house?" Clara asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Yes," John replied, looking at her.

"What kind are you looking for?" She placed her cup on the table, using a dainty finger to wipe at the bit that dripped from her lip and threatened to make a run down her chin and stain either the white cloth tablecloth or her white blouse.

"Something a little bigger than a flat, so I can put my furniture in, but something not as large as my old place." He grabbed one of the oak chairs and pulled it out. He sat down, his knees cracking stiffly. He wanted a drink but he knew Clara didn't like it when Harry drank, and he didn't want to encourage his sister.

"In Bristol or no?" She questioned, her hands rested on the table. Her brown eyes almost looked like an amber color and he found himself staring before snapping himself out of it.

"Hm? Oh!" He dragged his fingers across his mouth, pinching the corners of his mouth in, tugging at his bottom lip a bit. "Not in Bristol. The city is nice but I just...want quiet for now." He admitted. Clara nodded, understanding.

"Well, there's an old house that isn't in too bad of condition by the Sand Bay. It's about a 30 minute drive west of here. Quaint and cheap. No one's buying and the owner doesn't really want to keep paying taxes on it so it's up for sale." She explained, running her fingertip around the rim if her mug.

"Don't give John that house!" Harry turned, growling. It caught both John and Clara off guard.

"W-why not?" John looked up, his fingers weaving together, his tongue dragging across his dry lips. Seeing it, Clara stood and pushed her chair in before walking around the table. She slipped in behind Harry and grabbed a coffee mug, filling it for him. Harry moved out of the way so as not to bump Clara as she brought the full mug back to John.

"Harry thinks that house is haunted. A few years ago we looked into it as a beach home seeing how its right on the water, but she said that she couldn't help but feel as if someone was watching them." Clara said, handing him the cup. John thanked her, his forehead crinkling.

"Is that all?" John chuckled, looking back at his sister.

"No, that house used to belong to a detective in the early 1900's. It's said that she got too close to a person she was trying bring in, giving it away. One night the criminal snuck in a bludgeoned her, denting in half of her skull before tying her to the bed and catching the house on fire." She explained, her face dead serious as she told the story.

"And what was this detectives name?" John couldn't help but snicker.

"Cheryl something." Harry muttered, not appreciating the fact that she was being very serious about this and both her brother and her wife was busting her chops for it.

"So in a time period where women were fighting for their rights, a woman by the name of Cheryl lived alone on the edge of a large body of water and was a detective." He repeated as if trying to get every fact memorized.

"You know what? Screw you two." Harry grunted, turning her back on them.

"Harriet, listen I'm not trying to bust your bubble or anything, but that story is bollocks. Complete bollocks." He rested his elbows against the table. "The biggest thing that makes it bollocks is the fact that ghosts don't exist."

"No? Well how about we drive out sometime this week and we check out the place?" She looked at him, feeling this deep urge to prove him wrong.

"Sounds good to me." He grinned, looking at her, taking her offer gladly. Although he loved his sister, he enjoyed proving her wrong, and this would just be another one of those times.

And if all things went well, he might even get a new home from it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Harry and Clara meet up with the rather nice owner of the house Mr. Albott for a showing of the house. He seems rather cheerful until he mentions there is a cat that keeps getting inside and having kittens, but Harry dislikes the house for other reasons and is unable to keep John from buying.

Chapter 3

 

It was Wednesday, his things were mostly unpacked. He didn't really mind spending the time with Harry and Clara, but since Harry had brought it up he had been excited to see the place.

Clara was the one to drive them. Turning off of the main road, they made their way through forest. A single pathway was worn from the main road into the line of trees. She took it slowly, careful not to bounce the car around too much. When they cleared to the opposite end they saw the house. It was an older house, mostly unpainted wood. It was a bit unnerving with it's ghostly appearance but John forced a smile. There was a car parked in the packy dirt patch that served as a driveway. A fairly decent sized garage was erected next to the house at the end of the drive.

"That must be Mr. Albott." Clara commented, looking at the car as a smartly dressed man climbed out. Mr. Albott looked to have been in his 40's. His dark hair starting to gray, but his blazer and slacks were ironed to perfection. Clara pulled up and parked the car. Letting it run for a few moments before turning it off.

Carefully pushing the door open, John climbed out of the vehicle, making sure as to not lose his footing in the slick earth beneath his feet.

"Ah, you must be Dr. Watson." The smartly dressed man walked forward, holding his hand out to shake it. John grabbed it, shaking it firmly.

"Please, call me John." John smiled. The man grinned, his eyes sparkling as he nodded.

"Carl," he replied. "You're here for a tour of the house?" He questioned, letting go. John wanted to be sarcastic and tell him no, he was just there to run naked aimlessly through the yard but settled with a friendly nod of the head as his eyes trailed off to the ocean. "Good!" He smiled. "Follow me."

Turning he made his way for the garage. Harry and Clara hesitated, exchanging a few words behind him before they followed. Getting to the garage, Carl grabbed the door and pushed it open, wasting no time in getting down to business.

"This garage was built in the early 1900's by a man named Phillip Welsh. It's sturdy, given it's old age. It doubled as a workshop and even as a medical clinic at one point in time, even though as medicine got better, the conditions in which were required to undergo medical procedures were updated." He explained. "There is plenty of room to park your car and plenty of shelf room and counter in case you need it for anything."

John looked around. It was an empty dirt floor garage, the dirt barren and packed down tight. It could fit two cars in it and looked very similar to that of a horse stable. Counters were put in, wrapping along the entire back side of the garage. To the far end there were a flight of stairs. His guess it lead to a second floor used for storage. "Not bad." John mused, looking around. He stopped seeing a couple electric lights. They seemed like a new edition.

As the cold blew in off of the ocean he couldn't help but notice how warm the garage was. It was as if it was insulated to withstand the long hours of work in the colder months.

"Shall we check out the house?" Carl questioned, a happy smile on his face. John looked at him, being pulled out of his vacancy. He gawked quietly before raising his eyebrows, shaking his head.

"Of course." Carl grinned and turned, making his way back past the doctor, heading out for the house. John followed along, flashing a quick smile at the girls behind him as he climbed the couple steps onto the porch. It was a wrap around that covered most of the side of the house overlooking the water. He liked it.

"Large two story house. The insides were reconstructed after a bad fire in the late 1800's, early 1900's." the man presented. It seemed as if they'd entered right into a living area. The floors newer looking that the outside.

"A fire?" John looked at him, remembering what Harry had told him a few days before.

"Oh," Carl stopped and looked at John, an expression on his face as if he were already regretting saying anything about it. "The person who bought this house from Mr. Welsh was killed in a fire that took place in this house." John nodded, looking around. It seemed a bit dark and bare. Large windows were covered in dust, spiderwebs knitted a veil across them. This house looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years, but what carpeting it had looked like it had been laid down at least within the last 15.

"Did the house have to be torn down?" John questioned, wondering if the shell was original and it was just gutted or if it had burnt to the ground.

"Oh no, the fire surprisingly was able to be put out with minimal damage to the outside or foundation. My father bought this 30 some odd years ago and rebuilt the inside. He added in electric, new floors, replaced the windows, better plumbing. When he died his real estate went to me." He replied. Then with a quick nudge of his head he motioned for John to follow him into another room. A kitchen, or so it seemed. It opened up into a large dining room, a large beautiful window over the sink that overlooked the water.

"Certainly plenty of room here." John mused in awe. "It's not haunted is it?" He snickered looking at Carl. Harry slapped his arm, not appreciating being made fun of in front of a stranger. Carl laughed, shaking his head, but there was a look in his eye that put John off a bit.

"No, oh no. No ghosts here I can assure you." There was a thud upstairs, making John, Carl and Clara jump. Harry screamed, her hand clasping over her heart. "Ah, I forgot to tell you. A cat keeps finding his way in. I've had to sweep a litter of kittens out once too many and find homes for them. Normally they stay in the garage, but on colder days they like being here. Warmer for them upstairs." Carl grimaced.

"So that was the cat?" John pointed upstairs, curiously. Carl just closed his eyes as if annoyed and nodded, lipping the words 'yeah.' Turning, John looked around, poking his head back in through the living room. "You don't mind if I go see, do you?" He pointed, walking backwards into the living room. The man shook his head, a smile on his face.

"Not at all, come on." He walked past John and the girls, leading him back through the good sized living area to another room just off the other side of it. It looked to be an office with quite a many books stuffed onto the book shelves. John stopped, his mouth agape as he looked at the shelves. "Ah, the study." Carl smiled. "All of these books were here when my father bought the place. Some were burnt along the edges but all completely useable." He explained. John looked around, then stopped, spotting a book on the floor. Walking over he picked it up and searched for it's original position, but it was impossible. All of the books were un-categorized. Something he'd have to fix when he moved in.

"Whoever lived here before sure didn't know how to organize." John shot, his nose crinkling from the dust. "I mean look at these...encyclopedias?" He looked at them confused. "Are these encyclopedias? Anyway, they're pulled away from their set. IAMSHERLOCK, separated from the others." He laughed a little. "Watch out Harry, the ghost is trying to communicate with encyclopedias." He teased looking back at his sister.

"Oh bugger off." She glared at him. Another thud sounded upstairs, making them jump, but this time, Harry kept quiet, her eyes closed.

"That's right." John pulled away, turning to face a door on the opposite side of the room. "Let's see what we can't do about that cat." He grinned. Turning Carl outstretched his arm, placing it behind John's shoulders. Pulling the door open he ushered the doctor upstairs.

The upstairs was about as big as the downstairs. A master bedroom, a large bathroom with a shower and a guest bedroom. And just off the guest room was a small guest office, both with a wrap around balcony that overlooked the water.

"Wow," John looked around in awe, then found out where the cat could have been coming from. The balcony door was open, the sheer white curtains fluttering in the ocean breeze. The rooms were beautiful.

"The master and the guest bedrooms were the first to be rebuilt." Carl explained. "My father aimed to make this look as similar to the original house as possible." He didn't move in past the door, leaning against the wall.

"It's a lovely-" he stopped, his eyes falling on a charred human skull. "Is that a skull?" He pointed, freezing a bit.

"Yeah, my father always went on about how genius the last owner of the house was. Apparently they worked together." The man explained, seeming lost in the history.

"Worked together?" He looked at him confused.

"My father was 50 when he had me, mum was 23. Died of old age my dad did. He went on and on about this place. 'Belonged to the most brilliant mind in London' said he." His eyes skimmed the room. "Shame, I find half of this stuff to be trash." He turned to head out the door, but the door slammed shut, catching his pinky. He gasped, pulling his hand back, finger going to his mouth. "Bloody wind!" He snarled.

"Are you alright?" John questioned, looking at him concerned.

"Fine," the man muttered after a minute. "Let's go then, I'll show you the master bedroom and the bathroom." He pushed the door open angrily, stomping out. John heard a light, whispering giggle behind him, a deeper voice. He looked back at Harry, a smile on his face. She was snickering too.

"Come on, our haunted tour is almost over." He motioned before stepping out into the hall, making his way to the master bedroom. It was a little bigger than the guest room with a walk in closet. Again there was a small study attached to it, both having a door leading to the balcony. He looked around. It was furnished similar to the other room except this one had a very large bed in it. It was old looking, kind of fancy. He walked over and sat on it. "Rather ritzy." He commented. It was a bit firm, but fluffy.

"Custom made mattress, the owner had a sleeping problem so he paid money to have a mattress made for him." Carl explained.

"Was the owner wealthy?" John looked at him curious, bouncing a bit on the bed. He felt the cloth of his pants tighten around his thighs, stopping him.

"Fairly wealthy. Came from a wealthy family. Took his share of his money to buy this house. Although he didn't buy much to put in it." Carl explained. John nodded, laying back on the bed.

"It's comfortable, but again, so is every Sealy mattress I've laid on." He smiled. "Not bad." He pushed himself up. Suddenly this small black cat barged in, head in the air as if looking for something. It rubbed on Carl first in which he booted it away gently. Obviously not a cat person. "Hey there." John smiled. The cat purred, running at him. It climbed up the side of the bed before forcing itself into John's lap. John laughed, petting it. "A stray? She's awfully friendly for being a stray." He itched her chin. In a matter of seconds the cat was purring loud enough to hear throughout the room.

"I don't know enough about it. All I know is it's always here and it always has kittens." He muttered. "Can I show you the rest of the house?" He hinted, wanting to get it over with. John noticed the sudden change in attitude. Could someone really hate a cat that much?

Grabbing the cat John put it on the bed and got up, hurrying to follow the man out of the room so they could look at the rest of the house. The cat followed, meowing at them, over and over again.

"Mouthy little girl." Harry commented, pulling her hair out of her face to look down and back at it. The cat sat in the middle of the hall, a few steps back, looking up as if looking at another person. Her smile faded a bit as she looked in the space the cat began circling. Swallowing she turned, hesitant to take her eyes off that spot as she followed.

"This is the bathroom. There's another one just like it downstairs just off the living room." Carl explained. There was a claw foot tub large enough for two people to lay beside each other and stretch out. A shower was fastened to it. It was a very open bathroom, large white. Older tile was laid down across the floor, the walls covered with white wallpaper. A large sink and counter pressed against the wall. There was plenty of space to store towels and belongings on the shelves along the wall and an entire wall was opened up. Completely made of glass with a door leading out onto the final stretch of balcony.

"Bathroom lacks a little privacy." John noted, looking out the window over the ocean. "I'll have to get some blinds for it." He muttered, watching the waves roll back and forth before looking back at Carl. "How much does this place cost?"

That was the question that brought a smile to the mans face. Someone was considering the place after years of people saying they didn't want to live in a place that was haunted. "127,000 pounds." John raised his eyebrows, whistling.

"Not bad for a place like this. The electricity has been replaced and the plumbing is good?" He looked back out the window.

"Everything is perfect. Passed inspection with flying colors, and if you need someone to repair something just call me. I know this place like the back of my hand." He smiled.

"Why's it so cheap then?" John asked finally, turning away from the distraction. The man frowned shaking his head.

"I'm paying taxes on a house no one is interested in and I'm not living in it. So I'm paying money on a place that's just sitting there." He admitted. John nodded, understanding.

"How soon do you want payment?" John turned looking at him. Harry's head snapped from the meowing cat, still walking circles in the hall to her brother. Her heart leapt. She didn't want John to move in, the house putting her off a bit. She didn't like it.

"Anytime you're ready." He smiled, extending an arm. John nodded, making his way out of the room, his eyes falling on the cat.

"What a mouthy cat." He smiled. Bending down he picked it up, holding it to his chest.

"Not very smart." Carl admitted, his nose crinkling. "Whoever owns it must be an idiot too-" turning the corner, his hand on the railing he tripped, falling down the flight of stairs. Harry and Clara ran over, all three of their jaws dropping as they watched the man roll and splay across the floor at the bottom.

"Oh my god!" John ran down the steps, holding the cat tight so he wouldn't bounce it too much. "Bloody hell are you alright?" He placed the cat on the floor before bending down, giving he man a quick look over. It didn't seem like he'd broken anything.

Carl groaned, starting to push himself up. John grabbed his arm, helping to haul him to his feet, brushing him off. "Damn," he groaned, his back cracking a bit as he straightened up. "Damn cat."

"But John was holding the cat." Harry said, sharing a look with Clara at the top of the stairs. Carl looked back at her, fixing his shirt before grunting.

"Then I guess I'm just clumsy. Anyway," he slowly hobbled to the desk, pulling out the chair to sit down. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out some folder documents. Unfolding them he grabbed a pen from his other pocket and started filling them out. "You can pay for it all at once or pay for it in installments." He looked at him. "However easy it is for you." John nodded, taking the papers once Carl had finished writing, reading them over.

"I have 3,000 available right now, I get access to the account my wife set up in a few days. It's on a hold. I can give you the rest then." John said, his eyes skimming across the documents to make sure there were no hidden deals. Carl nodded.

"Sounds good to me." He muttered. He watched, his fingers drumming on the desk a bit, his face twisting as the pain from falling down the stairs kicked in. Taking the pen John signed all of the necessary areas before sliding the papers and pen back to him. Smiling Carl took the pen and signed the final signature place. Tucking the pen back into his pocket he held out his hand, a warm smile on his face. "Welcome home, John Watson."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Harry get together to fix up the house a bit to make it more presentable now that John will be living there. After their work is done for the day and Harry goes home John heads out to lock up the garage. But on his way to the house he sees a mysterious figure that he figures is his imagination. After a relaxing bath gone wrong, John finds out that he was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this chapter came out so poor. I really was in a funk when I was writing it and it seemed to rush, especially when I went back through to proof read. I originally write all of these chapters in notes on my iPod, so please excuse the lack of everything
> 
> P.S
> 
> Short masturbation scene. Ends quickly.

Chapter 4

 

John didn't move in right away, not feeling right about moving his stuff into a house that wasn't fully paid off. But when the house was paid for he began moving his belongings into the garage.

Although the house was nice, it was dark and littered with spiderwebs from one corner if the house to another. So he bought up as many cleaning supplies as necessary to prepare for his long task of making the house look liveable. The moment he got back he grabbed the broom and went to work, sweeping up the dust covered floors, then tackled the thick curtains of spiders webs that veiled the windows.

John was really quite surprised how much brighter the downstairs had seemed after the webs were removed and the floor was all swept. Grabbing a bottle of glass cleaner he began washing the windows of all of their watermarks, smudged finger prints and dust.

From there he grabbed a wash cloth and carefully washed the walls, making sure any dirt was clean from them only to reveal that they weren't just bare, they were wallpapered with white paper that had been scorched from the fire. He swallowed a bit, staring at the areas that were scorched and the other areas that were dyed by smoke. He'd have to paint over them. But later.

Once he was done washing the walls he went out and grabbed a few of his end stands and entertainment system. Carefully he dragged them in setting the end stands up against the longest wall and the entertainment system up against the opposite wall before he went back out to grab a few more things.

Searching through his belongings he grabbed some of his clothes and towels and brought them upstairs, putting half of the towels on the shelves in the bathroom then went to the master bedroom and placed his clothes on the bed. Turning around he saw that there was already a dresser, pressed up against the wall at the foot of the bed. A dusty vase sat on top of it with a ring of hard water stains. The dresser was a cherry wood, imported from what he could tell and intricately carved. He dragged a finger over the designs. Someone had taken good care of this piece of furniture.

Turning back to the bed he grabbed some of the clothes and folded them up, sliding them into the large spacious drawers. He hung up his suits and dress shirts and blazers inside of the walk in closet near the bedroom door then closed it.

Once he had put away all that he carried up he went back down to the garage, stuffing blankets, curtains and shower curtains into a large hamper and carted it all back upstairs. Stopping by the bathroom first he placed the curtain up around the claw-foot tub and dropped a bath mat just outside. Grabbing the curtains and curtain rods he turned to place them up over the glass wall of the bathroom but stopped. There was already a bar as to which he could hang his curtains on. Smiling he pulled the long bar down and slid his own in place before replacing the bar on their big brass hooks.

Grabbing the hamper he made his way to the bedroom and placed the folded blankets at the end of the bed. He would worry about dressing the bed later. Tucking the hamper into the corner of the room he made his way back downstairs and looked around the living room. He rubbed his hands together, trying to figure out what he should grab next. The only thing running through his mind was how dark it was. Then he remembered he had a few lamps tucked out in the garage. Turning he made his way out and grabbed them, bringing them back in.

He placed them on the floor and grabbed a container of Lysol wipes. Pulling a sheet from it he wiped all of the collected dust from his end stands that had stuck to the surface from the mist coming off of the ocean then tossed the sullied clothes into a trash bag he'd used to collect the dust and spiderwebs from the floor and windows. Outside, the sound of a car pulling up brought a smile to his face. Setting the lamps on the end stands he plugged them in and turned them on. The room lit up fantastically, but the burnt wallpaper made him grimace.

"Hey, I'm here!" Harry called, the sound of her shoes hitting the porch steps as she climbed the porch.

"About time." He called back, trying to keep his smile from impacting his tone of voice.

"Eat me." She replied walking in. She looked around, her eyes on the wallpaper. "Jesus. It smells like Lysol and camp in here." She muttered, her nose crinkling.

"It won't smell like that after it's painted." He replied, not exactly disagreeing with her. He gave the wall a quick look over before looking back at her. She was donned in a baby T showing off her stomach and a pair of short shorts and sneakers, her hair pulled back. "Forget to get dressed this morning?" He teased, smirking.

"They're called 'work clothes'. Not everyone is willing to scrub walls dressed like a professional kitten hugger." She retorted, pulling the front of her shirt down a bit to cover up her stomach. He chuckled, nodding.

"So I was thinking...how about lavender?" He asked, staring at the wall.

"Oh sure, then you'll have plenty of light when you invite your boyfriends over for a tea-party." She retorted, looking at the wall in distaste. His forehead crinkled as he turned his back on the wall, his lips pursed.

"Lavender isn't a gay color."

"It so is." She looked at him incredulously.

"No, it's not." He shook his head, trying to defend it.

"John, lavender screams put your willy in my mouth," she rushed him, a smile stretching across her face.

"No-"

"Let me gobble it up-"

"No-"

"Omnomnomnom!" He stopped, his head tilted away slightly as he tried to hide his laughter behind his hand. She grinned, watching him. Pulling his fingers from his lips he waved his index finger at her, his mouth open as he tried to regain composure.

"No. Lavender is a spring color. It doesn't eat up light and it's calming." He explained.

"Then use cream." Harry insisted, grinning. John put on a mock grimace.

"But cream is such an ugly color." Her jaw dropped, a hint of a smile still in her features. Placing her hands on her hips she playfully glared at him.

"Well then someone needs to head upstairs and start burning half of his ugly jumpers." John rolled his eyes, chuckling before nodding.

"Fine, fine, cream it is." He looked around for a moment, a thud coming from upstairs. Harry jumped before her eyes slid to the ceiling.

"I really wish that cat would land a little softer." She muttered, her hands dropping to her sides. "Did you ever figure out how it keeps getting in up there?" She looked at him, her eyebrows knitted. Everything in her being screamed ghost, but she tried to look at things from a logical perspective. As John had said, ghosts don't exist, and it was already proven that it was the cat that made all of the noise upstairs.

"There's a leaning trellis against the back of the house. I guess she just uses it as a ladder to get up on the balcony." He shrugged, grabbing the bucket full of mop water that he'd used earlier and brought it to the dining room. "What do you think about the rest of the house? What should we paint the other rooms?" He looked around. The wall paper was black all over but it there was no actual damage to the walls that weren't fixed, luckily enough.

"I don't know. Purple?" Harry looked at the kitchen and dining area. He stood up straight, a look of appall on his face.

"For the dining room?" He looked at her his face twisted. "Purple is associated with foods people don't enjoy, like eggplants or purple cabbage. So psychologically it's an appetite suppressant. Warmer colors like yellow or red increase the appetite. Colors like purple should be used for creative areas, like the office or other rooms.” He stopped, thinking it over for a second then bit his lip. “Actually, purple is kind of a bad color I guess. Blues are calming so you would put those in a bathroom or bedroom. Gold in an office." He explained. "I think a yellow would be nice." He turned his attention back to the dining room walls, his arm propped up to cradle his chin. Harry stared at him, her arms crossing. After she didn't reply or move he looked up, catching her pensive look. "What?"

"You are so gay." She dropped her arms, making her way for the door. He laughed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I lived with Mary for 6 years, Harry. You learn things living with a woman. Of course I shouldn't have to tell you." He followed her.

"Of course. In your case you learned how to put high heels on and paint your fingernails." She teased, heading out the door. She made her way down the steps, heading for the garage.

"I told you those were Mary's nieces. It doesn't matter how manly you are, if a little girl tells you to let her paint your nails and have a tea party with her, you do it." He followed her as she made her way for the couch set up off to the side, but unburied so they could grab it.

"What were the high heels for then?" She grabbed one side of the couch, bracing it tight and moving it over so she could get a good grip.

"New Years party, they were arguing about how women complained about trying to impress men and how being a woman isn't that hard. So the women forced us to wear their shoes." He explained, walking around to grab the other end of the couch.

"Be sexist," Harry looked at him. Leaning down she grabbed the couch and lifted. John lifted from his end as well and started walking, making sure to support most of the weight so she wouldn't hurt herself -after all, she was sick.

"I'm not sexist," he grunted, being careful not to run her over as they made their way across the yard. He stopped as they got to the porch. "Step up." he said, tilting his head to the side to peer around the sofa, looking at the steps behind her. He waited as Harry stepped up onto the bottom step of the porch, taking the stairs carefully so as not to knock herself over. "I was one of the only men who knew just how hard women work." He explained, keeping his eyes on the steps. "Ok that was the last one." He winced as she hit the top, his arms starting to hurt.

"Then why did you have to wear the shoes?" Harry questioned, hurrying so that John could climb the stairs and they could get the couch inside.

"All of the men had to," he wheezed a bit, taking the steps, almost tripping on the last one. "Put it down." He leaned down, putting his end down. Harry followed suit, panting a bit. "It was a...collectively suffer for the stupidity of a few type of thing." He huffed, bent over, his hands on his knees.

"Oh yikes." She grimaced. "Well, men deserve it for being sexist bigots." She replied. He stood up, rubbing his arms for a second before pointing at her.

"Now you're the sexist bigot."

"What?" Her forehead crinkled. "No."

"Yes, yes you are." He nodded, pursing his lips.

"How so?" She huffed.

"You said 'men deserve it for being sexist bigots'. You're pinning the blame on all of them. If you would have said 'they deserved it' then you would have been addressing the few idiots who actually were sexist bigots." He smiled. "It's important not to create a double standard. If you expect something from someone, make sure to do it in return." Shaking her head she leaned down and grabbed the couch.

"Damn feminist." Carefully she hoisted it up. Grabbing his end he lifted it up and helped her move it into the house and to the area where the end stands were, sliding it into place between them.

"If you think negatively about feminism then you haven't seen real feminism." He frowned. “Harry, feminism isn't just about equal rights for women, it's stopping people from using the word "girl" or "woman" as an insult. It's about respect for everyone, male, female, transgendered. Because believe it or not men are a victim as well. Being insulted and taunted for being too feminine because they like art by being called a pussy, or expecting women to shave their armpits because they're women and considered eye candy, or so that men aren't beaten up in the streets for being a nurse instead of a doctor." He spoke passionately, looking around the room as he explained. "Of course it's not as bad here as it is in the US, but still. You should be adamant about it."

She looked at him, her jaw taut as he spoke. She crossed her arms, not liking the conversation. "I just don't care about it. It doesn't bother me."

"So it doesn't bother you when a straight male asks you whose the man in your relationship?" He cocked an eyebrow. Her lips puckered, a look of insult in her eye. That's exactly what he was aiming for because he knew she hated that question.

"Come on, let's go grab your paint." She muttered, letting her arms drop again. Turning she made her way back to the door, her hand digging into her pockets to pull out her keys. He forced a smile and grabbed his jacket, following after her. You learn a lot about respect in the military. You're neither a man nor woman. There you're just a soldier, an ally, a friend. When he was deployed he'd learned that women were just as good as men. Running, shooting, giving orders. Women were just as good and it felt nice knowing that if there were no men around to help him, there would always be a strong, selfless woman behind him.

Getting to the car he slipped into the passenger seat and buckled up. He didn't say much as she pulled out, making her way to the nearest store, and it wasn't until they got there that she said something.

"Did you figure out the colors you wanted?" She asked, grabbing a trolley that was left by the entrance and pushed it through the automatic doors.

"Um, I think I have most of them. Yellow for the kitchen, light blue for the bathroom and master bedroom. Lavender for the guest room, a crimson and gold for the study's. Cream for the living room." He stopped as they reached the paint section, the associate refilling the color mixing machine. He approached the color samples and started digging through the color swatches, looking for the right colors.

"What about the halls?" Harry asked, looking through them as well.

"I don't know." He admitted. "Maybe a blue like the master bedroom?" He pulled out a lavender and cream color before searching for a red.

"Like this?" She pulled out a strip with a nice light blue. It was very calming and brought a smile to his face.

"That's a good one." He admitted. "I like that. Maybe I should change the halls to cream color?" He mused.

"Cream and white is nice. You'll have to paint the ceilings white." She said, not looking up from looking through the colors. John nodded.

"I have no problem with that." He admitted then smiled as he pulled out a lighter yellow color. Not super saturated but still colorful enough to make the room bright and happy. Digging through Harry found a nice gold and crimson color for the study and handed them to him.

"These it?" She asked, turning away from the samples, looking at him. Pulling away he took the cards and looked over them. Pulling a pen from his pocket he marked them blue= master bedroom and bathrooms, gold and red = study's, cream= halls and living room, yellow= dining room and kitchen, lavender= guest bedroom.

"Yep I believe this is good." He admitted. "I'm debating on putting siding up on the outside of the house as well. Or just painting it." He brought the swatches to the desk and waited as the associate finished what he was doing. "All semi gloss with primer in it please." He requested as he slid the cards forward. The associate nodded and turned, punching in the codes for each of the paints and stuck the buckets of plain white paint into the mixer to be mixed.

"I recommend siding, especially by the water." Harry said, looking through some pamphlets that were located off to the side of the counter for designing your house. “The water might not let it dry. Last thing you want is Nosferatu's play house to have bubbling monster paint growing off the sides.”

"I thought so too." He admitted, chuckling. While the associate mixed the plates, John went and looked for some rollers and paint brushes. Grabbing a few of each and a couple paint trays he came back and placed them in the trolley along with some tape and a roll of plastic to place along the edges of the floor to keep from getting paint on them. After an hour the associate labeled all of the paints with a drop of paint on the top of the can, then handed them to John. Thanking him John loaded the cans into the trolley and made his way to the front of the store. He'd worry about looking for siding later.

"Have you been looking for a job?" Harry asked once getting to the check out. Grabbing a scanner John scanned all of the cans, the total coming out to 125.32 pounds.

"Not yet," he admitted, swiping his card.

"Card invalid, please use another method of payment." The machine crooned. John blinked, nodding, trying again.

"I know the card works," he swiped it again.

"Card invalid, please use another method of payment."

"No, it's a perfectly good card." He argued. The machine repeated itself, making him flustered as everyone in the check out around him looked up at him. Biting her tongue Harry stepped forward, grabbing for the card which John tried to pull away from her. Snatching it she pushed him off to the side and covered the card in the bottom of her shirt before pushing it through, then removing it she dragged it through and waited. The machine was silent, then processed, bidding him a nice day.

Pulling away she shoved the card back into his hands and grabbed the trolley, heading for the door. "How did you do that?" John questioned, following her, looking down at the card then back up at her curious.

"Sometimes dust built up makes it hard for the machine to read your magnetic strip." She explained, pushing the trolley through the doors and out to the car. "The tip is to not get mad at it. Because then you make yourself seem insane." Opening the trunk she put the paint in the back and shut the lid before putting the trolley in the corral.

John didn't say anything as he climbed into the passenger seat, wondering how come he'd never thought of that. Pulling out Harry made her way back to John's. No words were exchanged as they drove, John thinking about the task at hand, trying to figure out how much time it would take to finish each room.

When they got back to the house they pulled into the driveway, parked the car and got out. Harry climbed out first and opened the trunk, grabbing a couple of the cans of paint. Getting out John followed her lead and grabbed the last few, following her inside, tucking the painting supplies under his arm. 

He opened the can carefully, then covered the borders of the floor with a foot wide strip of plastic so the wouldn't worry about getting it on the floor.

They didn't waste any time, painting the walls white first so the color would be even and vibrant, then carried on to do the same in the dining room as they waited for the living room to dry. Once the walls were painted white in the dining room, kitchen and downstairs bathroom they made their way back to the living room and poured the cream color into a tray and began painting the walls a light cream color. John couldn't help but smile as he painted, the place already looking much better.

Upstairs a loud thudding startled him a bit. Pulling away from the wall he turned and looked at the ceiling -which needed to be painted as well. 'What a noisy cat' he thought to himself, a smile on his face as he shook his head. Turning back around he pulled back startled, a large delicate hand-print pressed in the middle of the paint, just off to the side of his head. He smirked, rolling his eyes. Harry always did like to mess with him.

Grabbing more paint on his roller he painted over it, telling himself he was going to keep his eyes glued so she wouldn't do it again. After finishing the section he was working on he slid down, making his way around the room. A couple more thuds coming from upstairs but he ignored it. Once finished with the living room he rinsed the painting tray with the cream in it and poured in the yellow to start painting the dining room and kitchen -which only took the better half of an hour- then proceeded with the bathroom. Rinsing the tray and filling it up with the color respectively labeled 'Marine blue'. It only took 3 or 4 hours before the downstairs was finished. Once they had finished he stepped back with a smile, being careful not touch his paint covered hands to his face.

"How about we eat dinner on the porch?" He asked, looking back at Harry who had managed to splatter some paint on her leg. He was beginning to feel high from the fumes and he knew that fresh air would be welcomed.

"Sounds good to me." She agreed, putting the brush back in the tray and headed through the dining room to the front door. John followed but stopped off in the kitchen, telling her that there were a couple lawn chairs -from a couple camping trips he'd taken with Mary- in the garage that he could set up on the porch so that they could sit.

He didn't actually have any food yet, but he had bought a couple sandwiches and some crisps for when Harry came over to help -and an extra in case Clara had decided to come. Grabbing the two wrapped sandwiches and a couple small bags of crisps he walked out, being careful not to touch the door too much -which they had painted white.

Looking up he saw Harry making her way from the garage, holding a couple lawn chairs. He smiled and found a good spot to set them where they were overlooking the ocean. Putting the food under one arm he took one of the chairs from her and set it up before taking a seat. He sighed in relief. He had been working for at least 6 or 7 hours and the sun was starting to set, but he didn't mind.

Once Harry had claimed her seat he handed her her food. "Thanks." She smiled before looking at it. "John, did you get this sandwich from the Petrol station?" He started unwrapping his sandwich, looking up for a second then nodded.

"Yes, why?" She looked at him incredulously before shaking her head, unwrapping it from the plastic.

"Nice, first meal you have in your house is a shitty petrol sandwich." She muttered. He stopped staring at her just as he'd stuck a lettuce covered finger in his mouth.

"Well I don't exactly have plates now or a stove do I?" He turned his eyes back to his sandwich and took a bite. "Besides, it was on the way. Since when did you start hating Petrol food?" He snickered, chewing and swallowing.

"I don't, I just thought maybe you would have assembled a little nicer of a meal for the first time in your new house." She said, biting into her sandwich. "Like those cabbage rolls in the fridge." She reached up, covering her mouth as if trying to keep the food from falling out as she talked, the bread muffling her words a bit as she tucked the bite in behind her cheek.

"I guess I could have dirtied up some plates to eat cold cabbage rolls on the porch," he smirked, looking at the ocean. "I just wanted a sandwich." Not much was exchanged after that, both just sitting on the porch, looking at the ocean. John couldn't help but feel guilty and sad as he'd missed his visitation with Mary, but he knew it was a good thing. He needed to start letting go, and for the first time in a while he felt comfortable and content.

They watched as the sun began to set over the water. The blue turning a magnificent shade of purple and pink, but a black rain cloud cast a threatening shadow. In a matter of minutes, rain started to fall. A warm rain, comforting. It hit the water of the bay in ripples, stretching out far before colliding with another and vanishing, only to be replaced by another.

"I should get going." Harry said after a few moments. Pushing herself to her feet she took his garbage and balled it up, stuffing it inside her crisp bag tightly. "The walls should be dry by now. Sleep with a window open and the fumes won't bother you." She smiled, turning to face him. Standing he walked over, hugging her tightly.

"Thanks for helping. It would have taken me all week to get the downstairs finished." She hugged back.

"Oh don't I know it." Pulling away with a smile and patted his arm before turning and making her way to the front of the porch. "Sleep well, I'll be over in the morning to help you move the rest of your stuff in and paint the halls." She covered her head with the garbage, making her way down the steps.

"Do you need an umbrella?" He asked, standing by the railing, looking after her concerned.

"No I'm good!" She called back. Running to her car, she grabbed the door she pulled it open and threw herself in, slamming it behind her. He leaned against the post, then waved as she looked up, the car roaring to life. She waved back before backing up, turning around and driving out of sight. He stared after her for a bit before looking at the garage. With a sigh he stepped off the porch, making his way across the quickly puddling ground. He was soaked before he got to the building. Grabbing the door he pulled it down and locked it. He had too many valuables in there, he didn't want them getting destroyed or stolen.

Turning he made his way back to the house, enjoying the warm rain, but something out of the corner of his eye stopped him. He looked up at the balcony, his eyes squinting as the rain raced down his face. There was a dark figure, like someone leaning against the corner of the house looking at him. His heart jumped as he blinked the water free, but when he opened them it was gone.

He stared up at it, his mouth hanging open. He had no idea what it was, but for some reason it unnerved him. Turning he made his way back to the house and walked in, ignoring the smell of paint, or the fact he was dripping water on his floor -but he did remove his muddy shoes.

Grabbing the door to the office he pushed it open and raced through, running up the stairs taking two steps at a time. Hitting the top of the steps he waited, listening carefully. He made his movements quiet and still. The thing was, with old houses like that it was hard to move silently in, but John knew where to step -courtesy of military stealth lessons.

He carefully crept in through the guest room, barely making any noise at all, keeping his ear open. He would know if the person was moving from the sound of the floorboards.

Getting to the opposite side of the room he grabbed the door to the balcony and opened it, looking out. There was no one. Slipping out onto it he kept his ear open still, but it would be a bit more difficult with the sound of the rain. He moved quickly, looking into each of the study's, the bathroom and master bedroom. When no one was found he straightened up and stared out over the ocean, rain pouring off of his face. He felt stupid.

Sighing he turned and pushed the door open, walking into the bathroom. Grabbing his soaked jumper he began to pull it off as he shut the door with his foot. Dropping the shirt to the floor he started to unbutton the soaked white button up he had on underneath when the sound of the cat meowing reached his ears. He turned, looking out onto the balcony. There, drenched, was the cat. Walking over he pulled door open, letting her in.

"Wet, huh?" He grinned. She rubbed against him, purring, meowing over and over again. "Well don't yell at me for it, you're the one who wanted to be on that side of the door when it started raining." He smiled, shutting the door once again.

Walking over he grabbed a couple of towels he'd brought up and leaned down. He draped one of them over the cat, rubbing it to dry it off. The cat stood still, purring as the towel mussed up her fur. Occasionally she meowed at him, making him laugh. "Oh yeah?" He smiled. Once the cat was thoroughly dried he stood and went back to unbuttoning his shirt. "My turn."

The cat meowed at him before turning, walking in circles. John stared at her as she ran in circles as if at someone's feet. She stared at the ceiling, meowing over and over again. "You're a mental one." He grimaced before the shirt plopped to the floor. Turning he turned the shower on, pulling the curtain closed. He stood there as the hot water began steaming, the steam filling the bathroom. He grabbed his belt and pulled at it, pulling it free from his belt loops. Folding it he put it on the counter.

John stared at the fogging mirror, his eyes tracing over his pale body but as always, stopped on the scar on his shoulder. He was discharged as an army Doctor after he'd been shot, and that scar brought so many memories back to him. He lifted a hand, a finger tracing it, then suddenly something caught his eye. He quickly looked down. There in dried cream paint was a big hand print. He sighed and grabbed his pants, pulling them off, boxers and all.

"Son of a bitch." He muttered, holding them up to get a better glimpse when an image of a man standing behind him in the mirror caught the corner of his eye. Gasping he dropped the pants and whirled around, looking all over the bathroom, but there was nothing there. John stared, swallowing hard as a cool breeze dragged itself across the front of his body. A draft. Possibly from the door. It made his already cold skin prickle as his heart raced.

Leaning against the counter he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was being ridiculous. He was tired and he was seeing things. It was Harry's fault for telling him it was haunted when he knew it wasn't, but he never fully dismissed the idea that it could be, so it was haunting him now. He shifted a bit, feeling a strange sense of excitement at the prospect that he could have actually bought a haunted house.

Another breeze rolled across his body, causing his goosebumps to get bigger, but that wasn't all. Looking down, he noticed that somewhere in either the fear or excitement he'd gotten half of an erection. He sighed, shaking his head, then with a stern look he glanced at it. "Shut up." Off across the bathroom the cat looked up from her nose buried in his wet jumper, kneading it and screamed at him. "Not you." He looked at her before turning to the shower.

Grabbing the curtain he pulled it open and stepped inside. The warm water felt like fire against his cold skin but he welcomed it. He closed his eyes, letting the water rush over him. He didn't have any of his toiletries with him, so he would have to do without for now. Carefully he ran his hands over his body, scrubbing at certain places, then grabbing the drain stopper he placed it in, turning the heat up.

Bending down he grabbed the sides of the tub and lowered himself so he was sitting. He let the water rain down on him as his eyes closed. He'd always wanted a tub like this. Something relaxing, something big...

His mind started to wander, wondering what it would have been like if Mary and him had moved in here. She would have loved the view of the ocean from the balcony. The wrap around porch.

Soon his mind drifted to the tub. He imagined both of them sitting side by side, the hot water pouring onto them. The drops of liquid running down her shoulders and chest from the strands of hair she got wet. The slight pool that would collect as she held her legs together, her knees drawn. He closed his eyes imaging her hand running down his chest, cold, not yet warmed by the hot water. The curtain opened a bit but he ignored it. It was probably the cat.

He went on day dreaming, imagining her lips at his neck, her body shifting to wrap around his. He took a deep breath, his eyes opening as he looked down at his lap. His half mast stiff was standing at full attention now. The slight breeze that came in through the opening in the curtain was welcome as he tilted his head back, spreading his legs. His eyes closed as he grabbed himself, rubbing his thumb up and down the shaft, his mind replacing it with his wife's hand. He moaned, feeling a bit of shame course through him which he justified it with the thought "she's my wife, I can wank it to her all I want!"

He closed his eyes again, his hand sliding up and down his shaft, tugging a bit. God it had been a long time since he'd gotten laid. A two months before Mary died was the last time he's seen any action. He moaned, picking up the pace, his minds eye running down the beautiful frame of his beloved, dearly departed wife. A passionate fire ignited in his loins, his legs quivering as he squeezed, pulling. The hot water from the shower mirroring the very warm and inviting cavern of the woman he missed dearly. In his mind, he heard her moans, her breathy sighs with each pump of his fist. A cold hand traveling down his chest to his hips. His breathing came, short and shallow, his hips rolling as water splashed up the sides of the tub, rushing over his stomach. With a deep satisfied groan, the fire traveled from his loins, through his shaft. His breath hitched, his groan turning to a whimper as his pleasure splashed up his stomach in the form of a thick blanket of white that washed away with the pounding water.

He stared down at his member, his hand shaking. A tear hit his cheek. Reaching up, he wiped at his eyes, not bothering to hold back the tears. He missed his wife. He missed her more than anything in the world. He covered his face, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he sobbed openly. "I'm so sorry," he whimpered. "I'm so sorry I couldn't do anything."

Reaching forward he pulled the drain plug from the drain and shut the water off cutting his relaxing shower short. All he wanted to do now was sleep. Pushing himself to his feet he grabbed his towel and wrapped it around himself, ignoring the howling cat that followed close behind.

Getting to the master bedroom he flopped down on the bed. He ignored the folded blankets at the bottom. He laid there, his wet hair drenching his pillow beneath his head. He ignored the canvas feeling of the mattress below his shoulders.

Suddenly there was a thud. He groaned, wondering what the hell the cat was jumping off of to make such a loud noise, when footsteps followed. His eyes snapped open, his heart stopping dead in its tracks. They were light footsteps, but they didn't belong to a woman.

He sat there, his fingers twitching a bit as the footsteps came to a stop just outside the door. The cat meowed. But it was what followed it that frightened John. A soft whispy, other worldly voice. Deep and rich hushed from the hall. "Ssh."

He stared, his heart leaping into his throat. "Nope." John got up and grabbed the first thing he could, slipping into them. His sadness he had been feeling a moment ago, brought on by his quick pleasure session completely gone. "Nope, nope." He made for the door, shaking his head. Pushing it open he rushed down the hall and for the stairs. The cat howled, following after him. Reaching the bottom of the stairs John whirled around and screamed. "Stop following me!" The cat stopped, staring at him confused. The house was silent for a moment when footsteps started up again. John laughed, feeling as if he were losing his mind and screamed. "Nope! Nope nope nope!" He turned and ran for the door, grabbing his car keys on the way through. He didn't even bother shutting the door as he jumped the steps and raced for his car.

He ripped the door open and threw himself in, slamming the key in the ignition. Turning it on he slammed it in reverse, the headlight illuminating a figure in the window which hovered there, staring out at him. Then in a minute, it just vanished, disappearing completely. John stared at it in petrified awe before slamming on the gas, the car jerking backwards. He spun the wheel, the car spinning in the mud. Stopping he slammed it in drive and slammed on the gas, racing down the drive to the main road. Speeding along the road until he could no longer speed, heading for his sisters house.

Harry and Clara were just about to get ready for bed when the sound of a car door slamming shut stopped them, followed by a frantic knock at the door. Sharing a concerned look with each other they raced downstairs. Harry pulled the door open, shocked to see John standing at the door, drenched, pale as a ghost. He stared at her, his eyes slightly bloodshot as he panted. "My bloody house is fucking haunted!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hires a medium to come and communicate with the ghost in his house, but after she attempts to force him to show himself, the Spirit chases her out and shows satisfaction in being left alone with John. John's fear is quickly smothered by his curiosity of this other worldly entity that belonged to the house.

Chapter 5

 

“Haunted! I can't believe my house is haunted!” John shouted, sitting at the kitchen table. Clara came around the table, handing him a bit cup of coffee.

“Ssh, ssh John it's alright.”

“No it is not alright!” He screamed. “I'm living in a house with a bloody ghost! I was wrong, ghosts exist!”

“Did you get a good look at it?” Harry questioned, sitting at the table with him, her eyebrows knitted. She sipped at her own coffee, making sure her dressing robes were fastened tight around her.

“I saw him, I saw...the ghost but...not well enough to point out features.” He explained, his face resting in his palms. He wanted to die. He wanted to curl up and die of fright right then and there.

“You saw him.” She looked at him. “Well enough to know it was a him.” John looked at her, his mouth hanging open then hissed.

“No Harry, no I'm assuming it's a him based on the pure fact it had a male voice, was six foot three and had hands the size of a frying pan!” He shouted. “Oh but only through the fact that he was a shadowy ominous figure who enjoyed peering at me from around the corner of my house or hiding in my bathroom while I'm bathing!”

“A shadowy figure?” She looked at him then grimaced. “Good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?” John couldn't help but stare at her for a long moment, his hands spread as if he couldn't believe she was making him choose which one.

“Does it look like I care?” He growled.

“Ok ok, good news, it's not a ghost.” She said finally. He stared at her, his eyebrows knitting in the middle, confused.

“What's the bad news?” He asked, his stomach churning a bit.

“It's not a ghost.” She repeated herself, resting her elbows on the table. He rolled his eyes, his face twisting.

“What the bloody hell does that even mean? Your good news can't be your-” He stopped then looked at her, his eyes widening. “There's someone in my house?” He stood up.

“John!” Harry stood up, rushing over. She grabbed him, pulling him back to the table as he made for the door. “John just...sit.” She pushed him back in his chair.

“You said that there's no ghost in my house, that means that there's a person in my house terrorizing me.” He said, tapping his fingertip against the table as if pointing.

“I only said it's not a ghost because ghosts aren't dark shadowy figures. What I was talking about was there might be some other supernatural thing in your house.” She explained. He stopped, staring at her. Both John and Clara couldn't help but gawk. “What?” Harry looked at them confused.

“So you're saying that someone summoned Satan in the house I bought from a 40 year old feline-phobic?” He rubbed his forehead.

“Or a demon.”

“That's not any better!”

“John are you seriously listening to yourself?” Clara crossed her arms, giving both Harry and John a look of disappointment. “Harry just said there's a demon in your house. A demon, and you're believing her.” He looked up at her, feeling a bit ridiculous now that she put it that way, but he knew that there was definitely something in that house.

“Well what is it then?” John asked, looking at her. “My house is a 3 hour walk away from civilization, somehow they were able to get into my house with me being around and hide on me.”

“Yeah, and I was with John all day, we would have heard someone walking around.” Harry agreed, looking at Clara. Clara sighed, shaking her head, her eyes closing. Her eyebrows raised.

“I don't know, but it's not a demon.” She looked at John. “And to prove it's not a ghost, we'll get a hold of a medium or something.” She grabbed her coffee, drinking it as she stood.

“A...medium.” John's nose crinkled.

“Someone who can communicate with the dea-”

“I know what a medium is, Harry.” He sighed, cupping his face once more. He couldn't believe that they were stooping so low as to hire a hokey fortune teller to go to his house, whip out some hoodoo he didn't even like thinking about messing with, and messing with it. Whether it was real or not he didn't want to screw with it and he didn't want someone else screwing with it in his house. Last thing he wanted was to wake up with a thousand damned souls burning in his closet. “So where do you even hire a medium?” He asked, resting his elbows on the table.

“Well, there's one here in Bristol, we can have her run out tomorrow and check?” Clara opted. He really didn't want to, but at the same time, he wanted to make sure that it was a ghost -only because it would mean it couldn't steal anything from him or stab him in the shower unlike a trespasser.

“I think we might just have to do that.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. Both of them looked at him sympathetically for a few moments before Clara turned her back on them to pour out the last little bit of her coffee she wasn't going to drink.

“You're welcome to stay here for tonight, I know you were so excited to stay at your place.” Harry stood up, wincing as the back of her legs stuck to the wooden chair. He didn't say anything, he just gave a single nod, drumming his knuckles on the table. “Get some sleep, John.” She walked over, kissing his head.

“I'll try.” He forced a smile. Turning, the girls gave him one last glance as their cups were stashed in the sink, then they went off to bed. John stayed up for a while, thinking back on everything that had happened. Sighing he dragged his hands down across his face, wondering if it had been in fact a ghost, or his imagination playing tricks on him. Although at that point he didn't know what he would have been happier with, being wrong about the ghost or being right about it.

If he was wrong about the ghost existing, that would mean that he spent money on hiring a medium to check out his house that was plagued by his tired mind and paranoia. If he had been right about the ghost...well...he had to deal with a ghost.

He pushed himself to his feet, unable to take thinking about it anymore. He had the money, he would hire the medium for an hour or two just long enough to do a...seance or whatever the hell she was going to do then get her out. He would rather have wasted some money to find out he was delusional over ignoring it and having this pissed off spirit stomping up and down his halls all night.

Slipping his shoes off he put them by the front door and made his way up the stairs to the bedroom that once was his. Clara and Harry seemed to have already gone to bed -or they were doing something else, which he was awkward for him to consider. He crept by their room as quietly as he could so at not to disturb them -in either activity they were currently engaged in. Opening the door he slipped into his room and shut it once more.

He hesitated before stripping down, hanging his wet clothes up on the back of the chair at the desk. He crawled into bed and focused on keeping his mind blank. He wanted sleep, not to think about that...thing that was happening 37 minutes away from that bedroom.

Pulling the covers over himself he closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to catch up to him. A flash back to the bathroom, the reflection of the man in the mirror, but instead of the quick glimpse, more was seen. Pale skin, dark curly hair. Tall. His eyes misty but blue. John shook his head, forcing the thought out of his mind. Rolling over he buried his face under the pillow. The faster he went to sleep, the faster this would be all over with and hopefully he could get back to his normal life in his house.

**

John woke up early, sliding his clothes on. They were stiff from drying oddly all night but he ignored it. Heading downstairs he saw that Clara and Harry were talking to a woman. He was a bit taken aback at first, then he noticed the jewelry and clothes she wore.

“Oh John, this is Miss Alienia.” Clara stood, coming over to him. He looked at the woman, taking in her features. She was pale with gray hair piled into a messy nest on her head, decorated with little beads. She wore possibly 30 necklaces and at least two rings on each finger. She had a shawl wrapped around her arms that looked very much like something from Africa and a strapless maxi dress that had the same loudness as the shawl. He smiled and walked over, holding his hand out.

“It's a pleasure to meet you.” He greeted. She smiled, taking his hand, shaking it firmly.

“It's been a rough night, hasn't it?” She questioned, her eyes kind and understanding. “Sometimes spirits feel the need to bother the living right after they've experienced some emotional distress.” He stared at her, his smile fading. “He was probably concerned about you dear.” Standing she gathered her dress, pulling it into her arms so she could walk. “Come, you'll take me to this boy and we'll see if has anything to say.”

She made her way for the door, her posture straight. She tread carefully but confidently as she slipped out the front door. John looked back at Harry and Clara, concerned but in awe at the same time.

“Where did you find this woman?” he questioned, walking towards the door, making sure to keep his voice down.

“Clara went to her a few times when we first got together. I personally know nothing about her.” Harry whispered back. John carefully slipped his shoes on -even though they were still damp from the night before and made his way out the front door. The woman stood by John's car, a smile on her face.

“Are we taking your vehicle dear?”

“You don't have a car?” He asked, his forehead crinkled. She shook her head, an warm chuckle escaping her lips.

“No. I am mostly blind, the spirits guide me.” She admitted. “And the last time I had drove I smashed into a telephone pole. So it's best I stay grounded.” She joked. John couldn't help but chuckle a bit, nodding as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah, no I...completely understand.” He made his way down the steps to his car, Clara and Harry following behind. Harry and Clara chose the back seat, letting the older woman sit in the front. John of course drove. Climbing in he waited for everyone to get buckled up and settled in before turning the car on. He pulled out of the drive and made his way down the street, reluctantly heading back for his home. “So uh...how did you know about...”

“I could sense it.” She smiled at him, her eyes a milky color, faded brown. He nodded, wondering just how legitimate she was. “Spirits make themselves known at the most trying of times. That's when you're the most vulnerable and accepting. You'll believe anything after you've had a good cry.” She nudged him, her voice warm and calming. He laughed, nodding.

“Yeah, don't I know that.” After driving for a while he pulled off of the main road and made his way up the dirt path toward the house. Pulling into the driveway he parked the car, but didn't get out right away. He stared at the house, looking in the window he saw the figure in the night before. There was nothing. He inhaled deeply before turning the car off.

“Come come, he's waiting for us.” She cooed, unbuckling herself. Grabbing the door she pushed it open and climbed out, making sure her dress didn't touch the slick mud. He hesitated for a moment before climbing out and running around the front of the car to guide her towards the porch, leaving Harry and Clara to catch up.

John stopped after helping her up the steps and looked at the door confused. He had left the door wide open when he left in a hurry the night before, but now it was closed. Not fully, just...hovering open a crack, as if to keep people out, but still open in case John decided to come back. He didn't dwell on it too much. Grabbing the door he pulled it open and lead her into the living room.

“Which room should we do this?” He asked, rubbing his hands together. His skin was crawling, feeling as if someone were staring at him.

“What is the room you first noticed something was odd?” She looked at him. A loud thud came from upstairs, making him jump. She looked up at the ceiling. “I take it you hear that most often?” He sighed, rubbing his forehead in agreement.

“That cat...I don't even know if it is the cat that makes that noise or not, but that cat...”

“She's always walking around something.” Harry spoke up, walking in the house with Clara.

“Is she?” Alienia smiled. “Animals have the ability to see spirits, to...become emotionally attached to a being of another realm.” She explained, her hands cupped out in front of her as she spoke. “Children also do. They are more...adept.” Turning she looked around. “Do you know where the owner died?”

“Uh, yeah.” John nodded, taking her arm. He lead her in through the office. “Apparently he was burned alive, my sister said that he was tied to his bed and burned to death, but I'm not quite sure how factual that is.” he looked back at Harry. She shrugged.

“Then that is where we'll try.” She grabbed her skirt, hiking it up as she tackled the stairs slowly. The cat stared at her, meowing over and over again. Alienia smiled, petting it carefully, her eyes peering around the hallway as she straightened up. “Oh yes, it is rather cold up here, isn't it?” She turned, walking slowly as she dragged her hand across the railing. John walked slowly with her, leading her to the bedroom. Carefully he pushed the door open, half expecting something to jump out at him and sighing in relief when nothing did.

“So how are we going to do this?” He questioned, looking at her curiously. Smiling she walked over and lifted one of the many layers of her flowing, thick gown, revealing a messenger bag like fanny pack. He stared at her shocked, having no idea that that was even there. Like a laptop bag strapped to her hip hidden by 80 pounds of fabric. He really didn't see that coming.

Carefully she unhooked it from around her waist and placed it on the floor. She didn't waste any time, crawling down onto her knees. Opening the case she pulled out a Ouija board and a couple thin candles.

“Shouldn't we wait until night?” Harry questioned, looking at her confused.

“No,” Alienia smiled. “Just cover the window's, make it as dark as you can and it'll be fine.” She grabbed a lighter from her bag, working to light the candles. John thought it over for a moment, wondering how he could darken the room then he remembered.

“Ah, Harry, down in the garage there are three sets of black out curtains, can you go grab them?” He questioned, looking at her. She looked at him blankly at first but didn't argue. Turning she made her way back out into the hall and down the stairs, going as fast as she could. John watched the woman work, his fingers pressed to his lips as she struggled to light the candles.

Finally, after a few minutes the lighter stayed lit. Smiling she lit two of the candles, but as she turned to light the others on the other side of the board they went out. “Oh, I see.” She smiled. She put the lighter down, an understanding smile on her face.

“What?” John questioned, not quite moving his fingers from his lips, his arms crossed. “What happened?”

“He's blowing out my candles.” She giggled before crossing her legs. “No matter. Candles aren't necessary for this.” The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs caught their attention as Harry came back. She handed John the curtains.

“Did I miss anything?” She questioned, panting a bit.

“No, besides our ghost blowing out candles.” John muttered, not pleased with it at all. Turning he began to fasten the curtains up, covering up most of the glass. Once they were up he came back and looked at the elder woman. “What do we do?” She smiled up at him and signaled him to sit before taking the lighter.

“I promise we won't catch the place on fire.” She said simply, turning to light the candles again. This time, they stayed lit. “Thank you.” Placing the lighter back on the ground she placed the planchette on the board. “Now, before I get into it,” She looked at Harry and Clara. "Once I begin, it's important that you not leave. If my concentration is broken or I mess up, there is a good chance that whatever malevolent spirit is harbored here will be allowed to roam free within these halls." She explained.

"What are the chances of those spirits hurting and or killing us?" John asked, resting his palms on his knees. The older woman looked up at him, her face stern, eyes serious.

"Very good." Her eyes rolled back, looking at the girls. "If you wish to leave, do so now. Leave the house and wait in the car. We will come out for you when we are done." Harry and Clara exchanged a quick look as if debating on whether or not it would be in everyone's best interest if they left, then linking fingers they left, heading out and down the stairs to wait in the car. "Looks like it's just you and I and our spirit." She smiled, looking at John. John stared at the board, his lips pursed, as if he was trying to ignore an insult.

"Alright, let's do this." He lifted his hands up waiting for further instruction. Chuckling she reached forward, resting her fingers on the planchette and motioned him to do the same. John didn't hesitate, resting his fingertips on the piece of wood very lightly.

"Dear spirit of the dearly departed, are you with us?" She questioned, her eyes focused on the ceiling. John began to feel foolish as the pointer just sat there. Suddenly his fingers felt cold, the planchette moving, dragging up towards the 'Yes'. "Why have you chosen to manifest here?" John waited, his heart starting to race. Suddenly the pointer started to move.

"This...is...my...house." She stopped, looking at John.

"Do you want to ask a question?" John sighed, trying to think of a good question, then looked at the board.

"What's your name?" The pointer hesitated before moving, spelling out the sentence.

"Did...you...not...read...the...books?" He stopped.

"Did I not read the books, what books?"

"The...encyclopedia's."

"The encyclopedias?" He cocked an eyebrow. He waited as the board began to reply once more, seeming more urgent. This time, he could feel the sarcasm in the reply.

"Oh...my...god...kill...me...now." John glared. His mouth opened to pass an insult off but was interrupted as the pointer moved once more. "Think." Sighing John thought back to the encyclopedias. It only took a moment before it clicked.

"I am Sherlock." He mused. "You're name is Sherlock?" The pointer slid up to 'Yes'. "So you're...a man?" There was a long pause before the planchette slid off of the yes then back to it. "Did...you watch me bathe?"

"Let's ask questions that are important." The woman butt in. "Dear spirit, can you show yourself to us?" The pointer didn't move right away, then sliding down it spelled out a different answer.

"John...asked...a...question...first." She stopped and stared at the board then frowned.

"Ignore that question. Can you show yourself to us?" She asked again. The pointer didn't hesitate sliding to 'No'. "Why?" She questioned.

"I...don't...want...to."

"Show yourself, I demand it." She said, starting to get forceful. John stared at her shocked, his mouth agape a bit.

"I...said...no." She clicked her teeth. She opened her mouth to say something when the pointer moved again. "This...is...my...house. Don't...like...it...get...out. In...fact...get...out...anyway." She stopped, seeming shocked.

"That's...not good." John muttered.

"He won't do anything. He's not malevolent, I can tell." She replied. The pointer started moving again, spelling get out. John pulled his fingers off the piece, holding his hands up.

"No he really wants you out." John chuckled nervously.

"I won't leave, he's just being spoiled." She replied haughtily. Suddenly a mirror fixed to the wall shattered. John screamed, covering his head.

"Jesus! I thought you said he couldn't do anything!" He hollered. Her own hands moved up to cover her face as well, the pointer moving alone.

"She...lied." John stared down, horrified.

"Ok, get out, get out!" He blew the candles out before jumping to his feet to tear down the curtains. Alienia made a scramble to pack her stuff up. A vase exploded on the dresser, ushering her to move faster, earning a scream from John and the woman again. Gathering her stuff, she clutched the bag to her chest and made a dash out of the room. She headed down the stairs, doors slamming shut behind her. John's heart raced as the doors around him slammed shut as well. He whirled around, his eyes wide in fear. This was it. He was going to be murdered by a bloody ghost! He knew he shouldn't have hired a blasted medium! He just knew-

"I thought she would never leave." A deep, baritone voice sounded behind him. John whirled around, his eyes falling on a tall, pale boy. His eyes a crystal blue, his lips full with cheekbones that could cut glass and a messy head of black curls. He wore a suit, blazer and slacks with a vest. There were puffy sleeves and a cravat. John was speechless. "What's the matter? You look as though you have seen a ghost." He smiled, teasingly.

John opened his mouth to reply, his blood running cold, but his cellphone ringing stopped him. Grabbing his phone he looked down, Harry calling. When he looked up the man was gone. He froze, his throat swelling up. After the fifth ring he swallowed his fear and frantically answered the call.

"What?"

"John what the hell are you doing in there! Alienia is terrified, she said the ghost is going crazy-"

"No, no Harry I'm fine." He tried to calm her down. "She was trying to force him to show himself and insulted him. He got sick of her and told her to get out but she ignored him. Take her home and pay her a tip, come back later with my car though, ok?" He spoke quietly into the phone, his eyes skimming the room for any trace of the ghost.

"Ok, just...be careful." She sounded worried, then hung up. Ending the call he tucked the phone back into his pocket and waited, listening for the sound of the car to start and leave. As the engine started he held his hands up and spoke.

"It's just me, you can come out." He spoke carefully.

"Would you stop that?" John jumped, whirling around, the ghost sitting on his bed. "I swear, you people never change." His nose crinkled. “You people and you're 'Oh it's just little innocent me, no need to be afraid of the little fleshy sack walking around. Come talk to me Mr. Spooky, please!'” He mocked, his hands pulled up, waving his fingers dramatically. John stared at him curiously. There was a longer tuft of hair, hiding half of his forehead, the tendrils looking wet.

"Your name is...Sherlock, right?" The ghost looked at him, his blue eyes curious, questioning. There was something about them that made his stomach twist.

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes." He forced a smile, his head tilting to the side, his hands dropping back to his lap. That was when John noticed it. His forehead hidden behind his hair was stained red. John gawked a bit, his eyes narrowing. Sherlock looked at him, his forehead crinkling as he turned his head away slightly. John snapped out of it.

"Ah, sorry. John...Watson." He held his hand out. Sherlock looked at it but refused to touch him. John looked at his hand then retracted, looking at the spirit apologetically. "If you don't mind me asking...how?" He trailed off. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, his head tilting to the side in a curious manner, then a lovely smile stretched across his face.

"How did I die." He took a deep breath, not that he needed it, and reflected back. "I was a detective, working with Scotland Yard. Consulting detective, one and only. I was on a case, one of the biggest. A man was the center of a crime ring. Someone let my name slip and where I lived and needless to say I was murdered." He stared down at the floor.

"Yes, but...how." John nodded, for some reason wanting the details. Sherlock looked at him shocked, but snickered.

"I woke up in the middle of the night, the balcony door open. I tried for a weapon but a weapon found me. He and I were locked in a grapple, he had a fireplace poker for the fireplace in here. I managed to get us both to the floor. He took a marble urn and clubbed me with it, attempting to stun me so I would let to of the poker. It didn't work. So he struck me again, and again and again," John winced, licking his lips as the ghost explained it, his voice soft as if he were narrating an erotica novel. "I fell still," he continued. "So he hauled me up and tied me to the bed nude. He wrapped my night robes around my face to act as a mask. He then set the room on fire. I hemorrhaged, my brain slowly dying from the trauma, but it didn't matter. The flames melted my flesh away, the cloth keeping it so that I wouldn't die from the smoke." He forced a smile. "Or breathe in the heat. He wanted me to die slow, and when the cloth caught..." He trailed off for a moment before chuckling. "Well, nothing quiet beats the feeling of your face being charred right on your skull."

"Jesus," John looked down, the image of the guy in front of him on fire making his stomach churn. "So," he swallowed hard, dropping his hand from his face. "You're...an actual ghost?" Sherlock rolled his eyes before looking at him incredulously.

"No, John. I am a hallucination. You are currently in the Asylum awaiting your lobotomy to cure you of your demons." He replied sarcastically.

"Which would be good if lobotomies actually cured people." John nodded. "And weren't illegal."

"They are illegal?" Sherlock looked at him confused, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Oh yeah,” He snickered. “They're considered inhumane."

"Since when did humans care about inhumane?" The ghost muttered.

"Since we realized it was permanently damaging people." John replied, leaning against the dresser. His mind was still a bit blown that there he was, speaking to a deceased person as if they'd known each other for years.

"No," the spirit shook his head. "That made no difference. Medical persons who performed the lobotomies knew that it changed a person. In fact that was one reason they continued it. It's impossible to dig into someone's skull and not feel as if you're doing something wrong." He explained. "Of course you're doing something wrong, you're cutting someone's head open and removing tiny bits of their brain, the organ that makes them them. You're playing God and changing thoughts and how memory is stored. Everyone knew that, and no one gave a damn. Why?" He looked at John, waiting. He wanted to see what the man would answer.

"Uh," John licked his lips nervously, not quite sure what he should say. He didn't want to anger the spirit, not like Alienia did -and he was sure he wouldn't, but this was a spirit. This was a ghost bound to the Earth because of unfinished business or some other reason he couldn't detach himself. "Because...it made them feel powerful?"

The spirit looked at him, a smile stretching across his face. His eyes sparkled in the light bouncing off of the ocean. John felt his heart flutter, wondering if he had guessed right.

"Very good, John." The ghost praised. "Had I asked the same question while in life someone would have said money.” He stood, his hair fluttering a bit as if the wind were blowing through it. He came around the end of the bed. John instinctively took a step back, making the ghost stop. "But you said something different. Why?" He looked at him, noticing the hesitation to get too close.

John hesitated, looking at the way the ghost moved. Fluid, delicate. The way his eyes stared intently at him, rarely closing. "I've done surgeries before. I know what it feels like. Being that string that ties people to life." Sherlock's eyes glistened, a pleased grin coming to his face.

"I see we have a doctor in the house." He turned a bit, his movements mirroring that of a model on the runway, showing off the back side of his outfit. "Severe the string and your patient shall fall. Wonderful."

"Not really." John looked away, his lips pressing into a hard line.

"What is not wonderful about it? The power, the pride when the job is accomplished. Certainly you must feel joy at the end of the day."

"I was an army doctor," John shot, looking at him stern. "I hate the fact the patients were hurt in the first place." The ghost closed his mouth, his expression unreadable as John kept himself from seething, his knuckles clenched by his sides.

"Military doctor," he mused, taking another step towards him. John took one step back. "Tethered to a bloody battlefield. When someone dies under your care, it's not just a patient, it's a friend. An ally." He mused, looking at John meaningfully.

"Have you been in the military?" John questioned, wondering if the man was speaking from experience or not.

"At one point in my life," he walked over to the dresser, John moving away, keeping the space between them. Sherlock stared at the dresser, dragging his fingers across the carved designs that decorated it. "You don't trust me." He stopped, his eyes shooting up to the wall, avoiding the doctor's eye contact.

"You're a phantom. I can't even trust my own mind to decipher whether I'm awake or asleep." He said, hoping not to seem too offensive.

"Of course. You live your life ignorant of the after world when it doesn't involve Heaven or Hell. The chains that bind one to the Earth become nothing but a myth and the souls that remain bound become nothing more than a joke. A hilarious idle for children to dress up as." He muttered.

"Or for big theaters to make corny scary movies of." John agreed. The ghost pulled his head back, his forehead crinkling. His lips parted in a confused manner as he turned looking at John.

"What?"

"Yeah, scary movies. Like 13 Ghosts, or Ghost Ship." Sherlock didn't reply. He just stood there confused, stupefied. “Paranormal Activity?” John tried one that everyone had heard of. When the ghost didn't show any sign of understanding it any better John's eyes slid closed, pinching the bridge of his nose. That was right. Sherlock had died in the early 1900's. Television didn't even become available until the late 1920's. “What year did you die?” He questioned, not looking up.

“What year,” Sherlock mused, relieved that the topic had changed, even a little bit. “I really...don't remember.” He dropped his hand from the dresser, leaning against the wall beside it. “19...38? No...” He took it back, his forehead wrinkled as he thought back. John couldn't help but feel a bit of pity. For someone who have died so long ago in such a gruesome way and not be able to remember it. “I was in the military in World War I,” He rubbed his forehead, groaning a bit. “Bugger”.

Outside the sound of a car door slamming shut made John's head snap up, his heart jumping in his chest. He sighed, his hand going to his heart as he chuckled at himself for being so ridiculous.

“Hold that thou-” John stopped but the ghost was gone, completely vanished into thin air. The smile faded from his face as he stared at where the tall man had once stood.

“John?” Harry's voice carried up the stairs, the sound of footsteps as she walked to the bottom of the stairs. “John are you alright?” Her voice quivered.

“I'm fine, Harry.” He called back, his eyes remaining on the spot by the dresser. It felt strangely empty in the room now that the pale, dark haired spirit was gone, and John couldn't help but feel a bit concerned for his sudden vanishing act.

“I brought your car back.” She said, her voice giving it away that she quickly wanted to go home. He didn't say anything as he looked around the room. Sighing he turned and made his way out into the hall, leaving the door open in case Sherlock had come back.

Turning the railing at the top of the stairs he made his way down the flight to meet up with his sister, wondering what it was the ghost had been trying to say. Whatever it was...he was just going to have to wait until he got back. For now, he had to get his sister home and attempt to talk those two out of believing anything that had happened. The less people he had barging over to poke at his housemate, the better. After all, even if it was in John's name now, the house always was, and always will belong to Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides that the best thing to do is to lie about the existence of his ghost roommate for now to avoid any trouble. But in the mean time figures that the best thing to do is find out more about his housemate including how he died.

**Chapter 6**

 

"Clara, we're home!" Harry called, walking into the house. Clara pushed herself out of the kitchen chair and made her way to the door, grabbing John.

"You're ok?" She cupped his face, kissing his cheeks, obviously terrified. "Oh God! Thank God you're ok." 

John rested his hands on her shoulders, holding her for a moment if only to calm her down. "Clara, Clara I'm fine," he carefully pushed her away, smiling.

"Fine? John, Miss Alienia came running out of that house terrified!" She cried, her hands still clasped to his face. 

"Yes, well sadly she is a good actress." John replied, his hands sliding from her shoulders to her upper arms. The two looked at him vacantly before sharing a glance with each other.

"What do you mean?" Clara questioned, her forehead crinkling. She had gone to the medium quite a few times in the past and she seemed like she was the real deal. And that whole thing...it just seemed genuine.

"She did the whole spiel and well...the board said some pretty scary stuff but that was about it." He lied, itching the back of his head. "I thought it was legitimate until I took my hands off of the pointer and it moved around on it's own with just her hands on it." He shook his head. "I think as far as simple guess and palm reading stuff goes she's fine, but there are no ghosts in my house." 

"But what about that thing you saw last night?" Harry grabbed his arm, making him face her.

"I was tired Harry. I spent 6 or 7 hours working on fixing up that house," he carefully pulled his arm away from her hand. "I'm still feeling angry about losing my house and there's a lot of anxiety from losing Mary. Of course I'm going to see things." He licked his lips. Half of that was true, but only the parts of him being tired and having a lot of anxiety from moving. Oh, and losing his house, he was still pissed about that too.

"So there's no ghost?" She questioned, looking at him slightly upset. "What was that shattering we heard before Alienia ran out?" He looked at her, his jaw a bit tense. He had no idea that they'd heard that.

"The cat got up on the dresser and knocked a vase off." He quickly improvised, hating having to lie to his own sister but knowing that if he didn't tell people that he was just crazy then everyone would want to go and poke the ghost. And dead or not, John didn't want that to happen. One, he wasn't sure if Sherlock could actually hurt people or not and two, that would be just plain rude. "Alienia didn't see it. She was too busy focusing on the board." He added before adjusting his jumper. "I should actually get home. Pick that glass up before that stupid cat hurts herself." He turned, quickly making his way for the door. 

"John," He stopped and turned around, looking back at his sister. He noted the look of worry on her face when his eye caught hers, bringing a concerned frown to his own face. "You're sure everything's ok?" 

He didn't answer right away. To be truthful, he didn't even know himself. He was knowingly going back to the ectoplasmic representation of a man who was murdered in the early 1900's and lying about his existence to his sister to avoid his home turning into a pit stop on a haunted house tour. He wanted his privacy, but at the same time he didn't want Harry and Clara to never visit again. 

After a minute of thinking he came to the conclusion that it would be best to remain quiet and enforce Sherlock's nonexistence like he had started. "Yeah, everything's fine." He forced a smile, nodding. "I'll call you when I need help moving the rest of my stuff in." He tucked his hands in his pockets, rotating his upper body a bit.

"Alright. And...sorry." Her hand went out, grabbing Clara's as if searching for comfort. He looked at her confused, not really sure what she could be apologizing about now.

"For...what?" His head tilted to the side, his eyebrows furrowing.

"For you having to spend that money just to find out your house isn't haunted." She replied, a sympathetic expression on her face that brought a light chuckle to his throat.

"It's fine. See you two soon." And with that he turned, making his way out the front door and down the walkway to his car. He turned to wave back to his sisters -Clara being his sister in-law and all- as they bid him farewell from the doorway then slipped in behind the wheel. Starting the car he made his way for home.

Pulling in the driveway he paused in the car and stared at the house. His concern for the spirit that had randomly vanished earlier kicking back in. Pulling the key from the ignition he climbed out and shut the door before making his way across the yard. Climbing the few steps onto the porch he stopped, spotting that the door had been left open just a crack.

He looked at it curiously before a smile came to his face. Grabbing the doorknob he pulled it open and walked in, tossing his keys on one of the end stands by the couch. "I'm back." He called, not expecting to hear anything, but the baritone voice that called back from the office made him grin.

"Yay." It sounded sarcastically unimpressed. John chuckled and shook his head, heading into the office. The spirit stood in front of the book case, rearranging the books so they were better categorized. John didn't say anything, instead he stood with his hands tucked into his pockets, leaning against the door frame and watched. Sherlock worked in silence for a while like this, taking books down and moving them before speaking finally. "Are you going to say something, or does the allure of watching a ghost re-categorize your library mesmerize you?" He questioned, flipping through a few of the pages of an old copy of _The Moon And Sixpence._

"Can you even read?" John asked curiously. The ghosts eyes snapped shut as he slammed the book shut, causing John to jump in alarm. He turned, looking at him through narrow eyes.

"John. I'm white and I'm wealthy...or was. I'm educated and worked with Scotland Yard. Please think before you ask questions lest this book finds its way mysteriously fluttering across the room with enough force to knock some stupid out of you." He turned and placed the book in its respected place.

"So you can read?" John pressed, now just doing it to see the detectives reaction. Sherlock stopped and whirled around, a coy smile on his face. 

"No, John. I just kept a library of books so that I may boost my seat up to sit over my ever towering cherry wood desk that once held all of the important documents I once pretended to know how to write on so that I may continue to fool the world into thinking that I, Sherlock Holmes is indeed, educated." His smile vanished from his face as he walked around his desk and made his way towards John. 

John took a large step back, both avoiding the ghost and making sure he wasn't in his way. The ghost looked at him, upper lip curling as he scoffed. "Would you stop that?" He walked past him, making his way for the dining room. John looked after him confused for a moment before following.

"Stop what?" He questioned, wondering what he did wrong.

"The whole..." His face crinkled as he pressed his lips together, his head shaking a bit as he gestured with his hand. "Moving out of the way thing. It's irritating."

"So my manners are irritating?" John cocked an eyebrow.

"You moving out of the way as if a single touch by me would condemn you to hell." He whirled around on his heel, looking him dead in the eye. "Look!" He snatched his hand out, grabbing John's. John gasped, trying to pull back but he wasn't quite fast enough. Sherlock grabbed his arm, sliding his hand up John's jumper sleeve. "See?" John stared down, his heart stopping dead in his chest, his air hitched in his throat in fear until he felt it. The softness of the mans hand, wrapped around his wrist. The coldness of his flesh was like ice, but it seemed to warm up almost like fire. 

"What?" John stared down at the fingers. It felt almost as if his very atoms were moving to outline the mans fingertips and ignite. Sherlock looked at him confused for a moment then let go, pulling his hands away.

"See? Nothing to worry about." He turned and continued making his way through the dining room. Reaching the back door he grabbed the door knob and pulled it open. John couldn't help but stand there in silence and gawk at the area where they'd touched.

After a minute of silence he looked up and made his way out onto the porch. Sherlock stood there, his eyes looking out over the sea. His hair was barely touched by the sea breeze as the jacket he had on -that had been absent the first time John had seen him- blew like a satin sheet. "You can touch me?" John asked, looking at him. Sherlock turned, looking at him, his lips pursed in thought.

"Hm?" His forehead crinkled.

"You can touch me." John said again, his voice raising as the reality of the matter sank in. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back over the ocean.

"Of course I can touch you. This is where I died, this is where I manifest." He explained as if John should have already known this. "This is my dwelling and as such I cannot leave this property. But I can touch everything and feel everything that happens to me as long as it happens right, here." 

"So if I shot you..."

"I would feel it." He glared back at John. "Do it and I'll make you feel it too. I can feel everything, pain, pleasure, fear, sorrow, blah, blah, blah I just can't die from it." He leaned against the wall, wiping his thumb under his nose.

"So in every sense you're alive?" He took a seat in the lawn chair he had sat in the day before.

"In every sense I'm an ectoplasmic shell of a living human being cursed to sit for eternity in one of my most hated dwellings in life." He muttered, putting an extra little push on the word hated, his upper lip curling a bit. He didn't seem too pleased about it, but John could tell from a look in his eyes that he'd come to accept it in similar to the way soldiers accept death in war.

"You hate being here?" John asked, confused. It was a nice house and big. It was peaceful. He chuckled, his eyes darting back and forth as the sea rolled up over the sandy shore before being sucked back out. "Why? It's peaceful here."

"What is it like in that funny little head of yours? No sense of adventure. It must be so boring." He turned and looked at John. A slight look of offense rolled over the doctors face, his lips pursed. "I was a detective. The best detective in London, the worlds only consulting detective. I woke up, ate breakfast and went out. All over London and Bristol and just...all over England!" He reflected, a smile coming to his face. "A woman would be murdered and days later I would have found the man who did it where it would take Scotland Yard weeks! All over England!" His voice rose, passion coming through. "I was the best and I prided myself in it. There was nothing that I didn't know, nothing I couldn't find out." John listened carefully, his head propped up on his knuckles.

"I bet your wife was proud too." He agreed. Sherlock stopped, whirling around. He looked at John confused.

"What?" John stopped, staring at him. Had he made an incorrect assumption about him? Surely he had been married. Or at least engaged. A wealthy white male, age 30 or so...what if he was younger than he looked?

"I-I'm sorry. How old are you?" John dropped his hand to his lap. He felt slightly embarrassed.

"When I was alive?" The detective looked at him curiously. "I died at the age of...33." He thought, biting his lip. "No, I had just turned 34." 

"And you were married, right?" John questioned, licking his dry lips a bit. Sherlock didn't answer right away. His eyes glued to John's, a frown on his face.

"No. I was never married." He sat in the chair beside John. "For what it's worth." John looked at him sympathetically.

"You at least had a girlfriend, yeah?" He tried.

"I don't like girls." The ghost looked down at his fingers, picking at them. John felt a little heat rush up his neck to his cheeks at that. He coughed a bit, feeling awkward.

"Boyfriend?" Sherlock stopped and looked up confused.

"Excuse me?"

"Did you have a boyfriend?" John asked again. Sherlock stared at him, his lips parted ever so slightly. John could see that the question was a random one for him. "Not...that there was anything wrong with it."

"Society seemed to think so." Sherlock rushed as John attempted to defend it. "No, I was dedicated to my work." He looked down at his lap. "I'm flattered you would risk your life to let me know you think of me like that-"

"What?" John gasped. "No, no!" He laughed nervously. "I'm...I'm not gay." 

"I didn't mention anything about being gay." The detectives nose crinkled as he looked up at John. "I was talking about homosexuality."

"Ah, yeah, no I know." John placed his face I'm his hand, trying to cover his blush.

"Then why mention emotion?" Sherlock shot back.

"No, um..." John looked up at him, biting his lip. "In today's society, gay is a slang term for homosexual." He explained.

"Why? That is absolutely pathetically daft." Sherlock insulted. "You take a perfectly positive word and warp it's meaning to a derogatory connotation because you normal people are too lazy to say 'homosexual'." He spat. "'Oh you're gay' 'thank you I try'" he shook his head, his hands splayed out in disbelief, his expression twisted as if saying 

John couldn't help but laugh, nodding. "No, I know." 

"What other words have you people transposed?" He looked at the doctor.

"Well,” John started. “Homosexuals are also called fags." He looked back at the detective, waiting to see his reaction. The ghost didn't disappoint. He groaned loudly, covering his face with his hands.

"Sweet mother of Mary why?" He fell quiet, then sprung up energetically, sitting to the front of his chair, his arm outstretched as if he were hailing a cab. "Yes sir I would enjoy a fag! Please bring me my cutter so that I might cut the tip cleanly!" John laughed, admittedly, a little too hard. "Oh bother, it seems I have forgotten my hanky for I have drooled down the shaft of my fag." Sherlock carried on. "With every inhale it leaks into my mouth, bitter bitter stuff these fags." He snickered, looking at John who was trying to keep himself composed, his face red from laughing. "I'm not gay until I get my morning fag." 

"Stop!" John coughed, choking a bit. "Please, we get it!" He wiped a couple tears from his eyes. He had to admit, he hadn't laughed that hard since he was overseas with his team. It felt good -minus the throbbing in his lungs.

"So what else?" Sherlock crossed his legs, leaning back in the chair, looking at him. John chuckled a bit more, letting himself calm down before he spoke. 

"Well, people call each other retarded and the mentally handicapped retards." He grimaced at the thought.

"Retard meaning slow, I suppose I can understand why people would. Slow at learning, slow at understanding, slow at comprehension. Though that term was coined for music, it's a bit harsh to call someone that." He mused. "You're a retard." He shivered. "It's always been such an ugly word." 

"What did you call the mentally retarded in your time?" John questioned curiously. 

"People." Sherlock looked back, his eyebrows raised. John stared at him, feeling a bit guilty. Had things really changed that much in that amount of time? Staring into the ghosts face he saw his blue eyes. They were almost pure, devoid of the perversion he saw in a lot of people now a days. He wasn't sure if it was death or the simplicity of his life that caused that. John couldn't help but stare, wondering what this man had seen with his beautiful, unnaturally saturated blue eyes that made the ocean look like a dull gray in comparison. "Or ill." Sherlock looked away, back out to the ocean. "But people none-the-less."

"Didn't your people send them to asylums?" John questioned curiously.

"For help and nurture. Yes." He admitted. "Apparently that never happened." John frowned. They were both quiet for a long while, just listening to the waves crash against the shore. Feeling the warm breeze turn slightly chilled as it blew through their hair. Sherlock closed his eyes, letting it rush over him. John almost felt bad about interrupting him.

"So...where did you go earlier?" John questioned, his fingers pulling at the collar of his jumper.

"Meaning?" The detective kept his eyes closed as his head tilted back a bit, exposing his long, slender pale neck and a single beauty mark just below his jaw.

"You were telling me when you died and then you just...vanished." The ghosts eyes opened once more. He nodded, his lips pressed tight before parting.

"I crashed." He admitted. 

"You...what?" John looked at him confused.

"I crashed" He repeated. When John's look of vacancy remained he sighed and turned to explained. "You see, spirits need energy to function, just like every other thing on the earth. Using your brain takes up energy, moving stuff without touching it, haunting...those all take up energy. When I chased Alienia out of here -hopefully for good this time- I used up an awful lot of my energy and I crashed," He smiled. "Like a little ghost nap. If you're someone like me who used a lot of energy in life what with deductions and running around, you get more energy to spend if you become a ghost. If you're lazy and you try to spend as much as someone like me then you'll crash for a lot longer." He explained. "So if I were to tear apart this house or really haunt you, I would crash for at least a couple of months."

"So when a place is haunted and someone tries to bring someone in to see if it is haunted and they find nothing..."

"The ghost is still there, just resting." Sherlock smiled. "Remain within your limit, think very little and you'll stay awake for years." He turned his attention back to the ocean. "But in the end you will crash."

"So it's like a battery." John mused. Sherlock didn't say anything, his eyes glued to the ocean. Then it hit John. "You said 'hopefully for good'." He looked at the ghost.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, but he didn't elaborate.

"What did you mean by that?" John pushed. Sherlock sighed, rubbing his forehead. He was beginning to feel tired already. All of these questions...he was beginning to suspect John was purposely trying to make him crash.

"Exactly what I said." He muttered. John waited, watching the detective. When he kept silent he sarcastically grinned.

"And?" The detective sighed irritatedly then looked back at him.

"For the last 40 years she has been making a deal with me. When Greg attempted to find a tenant for the house, I would do my haunting, they would go to her, she'd bring them here, I'd chase them out. She got business, I was left alone." He explained quickly. John was actually shocked by that, his jaw dropping.

"So she knew from the start?" He rose his voice.

"Oh good, you catch on quick." Sherlock muttered.

"So you attempted to scare me away by terrifying me into going to a woman you were in cahoots with!?" He stood, yelling now.

"Cahoots?" Sherlock muttered, a small smile on his face that lasted for just a moment before fading. "Why do you sound so offended?"

"Because you scared the shit out of me!" John snarled. "And then I wasted money for that phony woman! Why aren't you trying to chase me out now if you want to be alone so bad, huh?!" He turned and made for the door, but in the blink of an eye Sherlock was in the way, blocking him. "Move!" John growled, but Sherlock refused, grabbing his arms.

"Because I don't want you to go." He replied, grabbing John's arms, trying to stop him.

"And why not? It's not like you wanted me here to begin with!" John pushed him away. He forced himself past Sherlock and made his way into the living room, feeling played.

"I'm tired of being alone!" The detective called after him, his chest aching as if there were a heart to beat within his ribs. John stopped, his anger almost vanishing completely as the words hit him. "That was why I chased her away. I'm tired of being alone," he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Years and years I've chased people away thinking I wanted to be alone and then I suffer in a dull house. The smell of burnt wood and dust and spiderwebs. No one to talk to, nothing to accomplish." He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "You came and you weren't like the others. You were like me, alone. No dogs, no filthy fingered children, no...four...wheeled...planks of wood scratching up my floors." He looked at him feeling almost desperate. "I'm tired of being alone, and if I am to have anyone to share my home with, I want it to be you." He spoke softly now. 

John turned, looking back at the serious expression on his face, his blue eyes glowing in the dark light of the living room like fluorescent marbles. He began feeling guilty for reacting so harsh. He sighed, itching the back of his head in defeat. He couldn't imagine what it was like being stuck to this property. No one to talk to, no contact with anyone, unable to sleep unless he crashed. He looked back up at Sherlock after a minute and sighed deeply once again. "I won't leave." Sherlock smiled gently, fixing his coat. "But when I have guests over-"

"Don't worry, they won't find out I exist." He smiled and shrugged his coat off, dropping it to the floor. It vanished into nothing as he walked for the dining room. "As a toast to our bunkering, I will make dinner." He made his way for the stove but John rushed over, grabbing his waist, pulling him away and spun him redirecting him towards the dining room. Sherlock turned, slightly confused as John slid into his position.

"I'll make dinner, you just..." He turned the pilot light on, the gas flaring to life making the ghost jump a bit. "Keep me company, eh?" John smiled. Sherlock didn't argue, feeling a slight bubble of awkward fear as his eyes rested on the flames. He took a seat at the dining room table, rolling up his sleeves a little, fixing the slight poofiness of his shirt sleeves. Reaching down he unbuttoned his silk vest and let it fall away into nothing.

"Fair enough." He said, pulling the cravat from his neck and sending that plummeting into nothing shortly after the vest. 

"You were saying when you died earlier before you vanished." John started, getting the food out, enough to make food for two.

"Only make some for yourself." He told him before running his fingers through his hair. "Yes...19...33 I believe." He admitted.

"But you knew of lobotomies which didn't start becoming a wide practice until 1935." John said, looking back over his shoulder, putting the second half of the ingredients away. 

"I died in 1933. My employer and friend Greg Lestrade rebuilt the house. For many years he believed that I could hear him if he spoke to me while at the house. He didn't know I was a ghost." He unbuttoned the first couple buttons of his shirt and sighed comfortably. "He gave me updates about the world. Asylum conditions, wars, crimes. Everything." He rested his chin on his hands, watching John.

He couldn't help but notice the way the doctor held himself. His strong squared shoulders, hidden by a modest jumper that tapered into his backside. "I take it it didn't last long." John questioned. Sherlock sighed a bit, letting his hands hit the table.

"No," he shook his head. "He came almost everyday for a year, then would come twice a week." He looked at the wall for a moment. John turned around too look at him as the food cooked on low heat. "When he had his child he stopped coming altogether."

"Mr. Albott?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. "Carl Albott, born Carl Lestrade married Nancy Albott." Sherlock confirmed. "Greg retired in 1949 at the age of 50. At 53 he had Carl. Greg Lestrade died at the age of 97." He explained.

"But...Carl isn't that old." John looked at him confused, wondering if the ghost was fluent in math or if it was just an odd calculation.

"Carl is 66 or 67 years old." Sherlock looked at him. "He's kept good care of his body, he does look younger than he is, but I say I have him beat." He grinned. John chuckled, shaking his head as he turned back around to flip his food. "So I was caught up for the most part until about...40 some odd years ago." He sighed.

"And all of this time...you went 40 years without talking to anyone besides Alienia." John mused, thinking over how horrible of an existence that would be.

"I only spoke to her maybe once every few months. And that was just to make sure our agreement was still on. She never saw me, we never sat and had a full fledged conversation." He looked back at John. 

"She never saw you? Like...this you mean?" Sherlock nodded. "Actually, I'm surprised that you look the way you do." He placed the lid back on the pan and turned around to pay full attention to him. Sherlock cast him a curious glance, waiting. "You said you died in a fire. The fire itself killed you, not the smoke. Ghosts are normally supposed to take the form of when they die." He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter.

"Ah," Sherlock snickered. "Yes, I suppose that is a good question. Obviously ghosts have a control over what they look like within reason. How they are represented." He agreed. "Did you want me to walk around as I did when my heart stopped?" Sherlock offered, pushing himself to his feet. John looked at him, his heart starting to race a bit. He was curious. Curious as to how it looked. He nodded slowly. 

Sherlock smiled and slowly a flame ignited, burning through his cheek. His eyeballs melted in his skull, his hair melting as his clothes burned, melting to his flesh. His mouth opened as his skin bubbled and popped, burning away to expose his teeth. He howled in agony, hands going to his face as the room filled with smoke from the flames that touched the ceiling but left no mark. 

John screamed, staring in horror at the burning body ahead of him, his tongue melting almost like tar, dripping out of his mouth and into the floor. "Stop! Stop!" John screamed, covering his face against the heat of the flames. In a second, it was all gone. "Son of a bitch." He shook, his fingers pressing into his eyes. Sherlock grinned, watching until he saw a single tear hit john's cheek. The doctor couldn't believe that anyone had to live through that to that level. It was cruel, and sickening. 

Sherlock stared at him, his smile gone. "I didn't suffer long." He said finally after minutes of silence that was only interrupted by John's occasional cussing and muttering.

"You shouldn't have suffered at all!" John snarled. "For anyone to go through with that." He choked a bit. He had treated and seen many wounds, never once had he seen someone burn like that. 

Sherlock felt a bit flattered at how worked up a complete stranger was getting over his death -God knows if anyone else had felt the same when he died. He sat back down, nodding his head a bit. “It is awful.” He admitted.

“I hope that he rotted in that prison cell until the day he drew his last, filthy breath!” John growled, slamming his fist against the cupboard behind him. The adrenaline flowing through his veins covering up the pain that ran up through his fingers as his knuckles scraped the drawer knob. 

“He was never caught.” Sherlock replied, crossing his legs, his elbow propped up on the table, his chin resting against his knuckles. He looked at John seriously. All expression of joy that he had had before disappearing completely off of his face. John's anger seemed to drain from his face, warping to an expression of helplessness. But in the blink of an eye it was back to anger. Only this time it was more of a sad anger. 

“What do you mean he was never caught? Didn't Lestrade know who you were tailing?” John whimpered. Sherlock nodded, a look on his face that said _of course I told him. I'm not an idiot._

“Of course I told Lestrade, but after he killed me he seemed to vanish off of the face of the planet.” He dismissed it almost idly as his eyes dropped down to his nails. “Of course Lestrade spent the next...20 years trying to find him. Found him on my birthday trying to hitch a ride to Germany.” His eyes glided up to John to look at his expression. 

“But you said he was never caught.” John's forehead wrinkled, his eyes narrowing. A wicked smile stretched across the ghosts face, his own eyes narrowing in response. 

“He was never caught. Or rather, he was never captured and brought into custody. Lestrade shot him on the spot. Emptied an entire thing of rounds into the bastard, reloaded and emptied those bullets into him as well. One bullet for every year I'd spent dead. One bullet for every year I was needed but Lestrade couldn't call on me.” Sherlock hummed a bit, looking up pleased with it. “21 bullets in total. 20 for every year I'd spend dead, and 1 bullet for my revenge. He'd collected the shells afterward and placed them on a chain and brought them here to the house.” John sighed, feeling happy that they'd caught him, but at the same time felt that Lestrade had gone too far. 

Turning John finished cooking his food and stared at it in the pan. He surprisingly was not hungry -especially not after watching a human being burn to death in his living room. Sighing again he grabbed a plate and put his food on it and wrapped it in tin foil. Turning he tucked it into the fridge. “I'm sorry but...I didn't get much sleep last night what with panicking about you being in my house.” John closed the fridge again, his hand remaining on the handle as his free hand moved up, pinching the bridge of his nose as he felt a headache coming on. “I think I'm going to turn in for the night.” He looked up, forcing a smile. 

“Sleep well.” The ghost bid, his fingertips pressed together in front of his face. John turned, making his way to the living room but stopped, remembering one more question he wanted an answer to. Whirling around, his hands pressed against each side of the doorway as if trying to block Sherlock from escaping. 

The detective looked up at him curiously, waiting for John to say what he was going to say. John's mouth hung open as he tried to search for the right thing to say and debated on whether or not he actually wanted an answer to it, but finally decided. “Did you watch me in the bath?” Sherlock stared at him, a slow smile moving to his face, his blue eyes narrowing. 

“Goodnight John.” John stared at him, his lips pressed together tightly, his eyebrows furrowed a bit. He gave a quick nod, both eyebrows raising as he turned around again. He wasn't sure if that smile meant that the had or not, but he wasn't going to push it. He made his way through the office and up the stairs, running his fingers through his hair. 

As he stripped to his underwear he couldn't help but wonder if he was insane for staying in a house with a ghost. At least...he deserved a chance. Right?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles with his memories, trying to figure out where he stands in his relationship with John when John gets a call from Harry about a Halloween Party. Sherlock practically pleads with John to accept the Halloween party plans, telling him that one night every year Sherlock gets to leave the property.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this taking so long. I've been trying to work through migraines -which hasn't been working out very well. I'll try to get back into updating more often.
> 
> Also first half was typed on iPod, second half wasn't. Still will be some grammar errors -as I said I've been working on this blind, literally. I've had to type over 90% of this chapter with my eyes closed so my eyes could rest. So yeah, sorry for anything that doesn't make sense.
> 
> Also I do not live in the UK so my apologies for any wrong information. I'm just kind of one of those American's who secretly wishes that we aren't the only stiff jerks on the face of the planet who would sooner kill someone for something stupid. Like our lovely reaction to homosexuals and wholehearted racism even though the US is composed solely of immigrants.

**Chapter 7**

 

John's eyes cracked open a bit, the sunlight coming in through the window. He stretched, his arms stretching up over his head as he slowly woke up. Carefully he extended his legs until his heels collided with a body. Curiously he looked down, seeing the detective laying at the foot of his bed, his hands pressed together in front of his face as if he were praying. “Jesus!” John sat up quickly, pulling his legs back. 

“Good morning.” The ghost greeted, not opening his eyes or really acknowledging his existence. 

“How many times have I told you not to do that?” John growled, pulling his blankets up to his chest. Sherlock looked up at him curiously, his head tilted to the side a bit, his hands remaining in the same spot. This was how John had awoken almost everyday for the past 3 months. 

At first life seemed intimidating; living with a ghost. But after a while, John just realized that it was like living with a roommate. A really, irritating roommate who did a wonderful impression of an asshole almost 24/7. It seemed as if the spirit had absolutely no concept of what personal space was, or if he did then he didn't care. 

“It's not my fault you chose this bed to do your...human unconscious thing.” Sherlock muttered, his eyes slipping closed again. John stared at him with a quizzical expression. 

“Why the hell are you saying that?” He groaned, rubbing his eyes. He was not awake to deal with this. Rolling over, Sherlock propped his head up on his hand, looking at John. 

“I read one of your books. Last night, when you were asleep. That...trite you call literature. How to Cope with Spirits? Really John?” He looked at him incredulously. 

“You're a ghost,” John attempted to defend himself. “How am I supposed to know how to live with a ghost!” 

“How about you pretend that I was a human being at one point in time and live with me like that?” Sherlock retorted offensively. 

"I'm sorry Sherlock," John rested his face in his palm, really, really too tired to deal with this. "But you're a ghost. I don't know what ghosts do or how to handle living with them. Partially because I've never done it before!" He glared at the ghost. Sherlock snorted and rolled towards John, his stomach pinning his feet to the bed.

"Then choose a different manual. For Christ's sake that writer believes we have forgotten all actions we did in life, hence your unconsciousness." He sneered. "In fact you know I remember all of those things."

"Yes yes I specifically remember you telling me not to panic if I woke up from a dead sleep with a pillow over my face." John glared at him.

"An experiment. I want to see how long it takes a person to suffocate in his sleep." Sherlock defended innocently.

"Within 3 minutes!" John growled, more than happy to answer the spirits curiousness -even if it were to only open up another slot for another terrifying experiment. 

"Really?" Sherlock's eyebrows rose, seeming almost fascinated by the thought. “On average?” 

"Yes! Now get out of my room!" He pulled on the blanket, making the detective roll off of his feet.

"Why? This is as much my room as it is yours." Sherlock sat up, catching himself before he rolled off the end of the bed.

"Yes but I'm indecent and I wish to get dressed." John said through clenched teeth.

"What matter of indecent?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, adjusting his shirt. He sat with a grand form of great posture. He rarely slouched and when he did it was only for a few moments when he was in deep thought. The doctor groaned, rolling his eyes. He couldn't believe he had to spell it out for the detective. For being a genius he could really be ignorant. 

"I'm naked, Sherlock." He said simply, his heavy eyes narrow. 

"Oh," the detective didn't move, unbuttoning a couple of his upper buttons then stopped, a look of clarification coming to his face. "Oh. Right, well then." He pushed himself up, making his way for the door. "Quickly get dressed. The paper has arrived." He grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open.

"What about the guy coming by to hook up Internet?" John questioned before he stepped out, curious.

"The what?" The detective looked at him confused, causing John to sigh.

"Man in a big vehicle to plug in a little box that will help me have conversations with people across the world in a matter of seconds?" 

"There was a man that came by earlier. He told me to let you know he would be back around noon." Sherlock nodded. The doctor's jaw dropped, a look of horror replacing his once irritated expression. 

"You answered the door?!"

"Why do you always yell at me? It's like pressing a dwarfs pissy switch." He muttered, questioning to himself more than John but doing it loud enough for him to hear. "Of course I answered the door, he knocked."

"Do you answer the door for everyone who knocks?" John retorted, then stopped. "He saw you." 

"That's the reason I answered. I was trying to get a good look at him. Most people don't believe in ghosts, but those who do will see me if I'm not hidden." Sherlock agreed, pressing his hands against his thighs, rubbing them. John's eyes dropped down, staring at the ghost's slender fingers, dragging across his thin thighs as if he were wiping off sweaty palms. Slowly they closed, a feeling of nervousness coming over him.

"What did he say?" John swallowed, not expecting it to have a very good ending, forgetting completely the fact that Sherlock had mentioned before that the guy was coming back at noon. Sherlock noted the nervousness in his housemate's face. He couldn't hold back the slight grin that dominated his straight features, his arms crossing as he rested his back against the door frame. 

"Well, he thought we were lovers, for one." He said in a matter of fact tone. The words caused John's eyes to snap open again in shock, his breath hitching in his throat. His heart skipped a worried beat, then pounded twice as fast to make up for it.

"You corrected him, right?" 

"Of course I corrected him, John. I wouldn't want to be a victim of a hate crime for something so dull." He muttered then stopped, a sarcastic smile coming to his face. "Oh right, I'm already dead."

"Why do you keep bringing up homosexuality as if it's condemning, and would you get out of the room?!" John hissed, shooing at him with a wave of his hands. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned, trudging out of the room, shutting the door behind him all but a crack.

"When I was alive a lot of people didn't accept homosexuality. You were expected to keep your mouth closed lest you provoke someone. Buggery was unlawful until the 1930's, and while views on homosexuality shifted and varied, it became a little more tolerated after the first World War." The detective said from the hallway. 

“But you're not a homosexual.” John stretched a bit, taking the time to wake up before hopping right out of bed -now that he had his privacy. 

“No, I'm not. I showed no interest in men, but all the same, I showed no interest in women either. So naturally I was thought to be a 'hiding homosexual'.” he explained. John could hear the air quotes around the name, his forehead crinkling. “You know how rumor is. You don't participate in the the jargon of hormonally challenged members of your same sex and you automatically get pinned with the worst.” he muttered. 

“They thought you were gay?” John looked up surprised. “Who?” 

“Military.” Sherlock confirmed. “I was in the first World War when the rumor broke out. Followed my brother into combat. We were in the same unit. I suppose they figured best have both sons die off at once. I broke rules multiple times and snuck into his bunker to sleep with him.” He mused, sounding as if he were regretting the decision. 

“How old were you?” John looked up at the door, understanding why the others might have thought he was homosexual. 

“17. My brother practically raised me. My father was always away and my mother was no better.” He sighed. “I had shared a bed with my brother since I was 4 years old, and watching people get shot...well, I'm not one to search for comfort but it was necessary. I never got caught physically sneaking out, but rumor did fly.” 

“What happened? Why did you leave the military?” John laid back against the headboard, wanting to know more about the detective's past. 

“Ah,” Sherlock laughed. “A bullet ended my military career. A bullet from my own teammate. Claims it was on accident and got away with it. Got me right through my upper thigh. I was shipped home, my brother dishonorably discharged after getting into a brawl with a general. He took care of me.” He sounded chipper, as if the memory made him happy. “I struggled with a fever that almost claimed my life for a week from infection. Obviously I got past it and decided to become a detective instead. Consulting detective. And although my brother was dishonorably discharged he was given a minor position in the government. Or...I say minor.” He trailed off. “Let's say people weren't fond of homosexuals. Typically it was the Christian's that posed as a problem.” Pulling the blankets back John slipped out of bed and made his way for the dresser.

"It's not really that bad now. It's relatively tolerated now." John said, opening his underwear drawer to see his undies categorized by color and special occasion. "For the love of-" he dragged his hand down the front of his face. Grabbing his robe he slipped it on and made his way to the door, pulling it open. The detective looked down at him in surprise -having heard John make such a fuss over getting dressed he at least thought the doctor would put more on than a robe. "What did you do?" John looked back at the dresser to indicate what he was referring to.

"I organized your dresser, honestly John, no wonder it takes you an hour to get dressed, you have no sense of organization-"

"Excuse me." The shorter man's eyes narrowed. "You were playing around with my knickers. That drawer is personal and I would prefer it if you didn't touch them." He said sternly but all Sherlock did was snicker.

"You're embarrassed." He pushed himself off of the door frame and towered over him. 

"No, no I'm not-"

"Yes you are," Sherlock interrupted. "Your cheeks have flushed slightly in color-"

"It's because I'm mad." John interrupted but the detective continued on. 

"Good cover, but embarrassment starts in the ears, anger starts in the forehead and cheeks and your forehead has remained a lovely white while your ears-"

"Alright piss off." John shut the door in his face. He turned away from the door and made his way for his closet. Grabbing the door he pulled it open only to find that his jumpers had been arranged as well, just like his underwear. "Stop touching my clothes!" He hollered, but truthfully, he liked it. Sherlock had organized his clothes into simple colors and seasons. Heavier jumpers to the far right of the closet, summer shirts to the left, fall in the middle, spring in between fall and winter -from warmest to coldest. Special occasion and dressy shirts separated by a beaded, hanging divider -which looked ancient. 

"I'm only trying to help, John." Sherlock called back, voice muffled by the door. "You spend 15 minutes looking for a pair of underwear, like anyone will see them."

"I don't take that long!" John snorted, staring at a single jumper. He was debating on whether or not he really wanted to wear that one or if he should choose something else. He hadn't checked the weather yet and he really didn't want to get stuck wearing a heavy jumper if it was going to be relatively warm outside.

"Just grab the damn jumper John! The paper is here!" 

"Then go read the damn paper and let me get dressed!" There was silence. John waited for a reply, when he didn't receive one he turned his attention back to the jumper. Suddenly an irritated groan reached his ears.

"Don't wear a jumper! Wear a button up shirt and let's go!" He clapped his hands obnoxiously on the other side of the door. Rolling his eyes John grabbed a white button up shirt and a t-shirt from his drawer, then nabbed a pair of jeans. Heading to the door he opened it and held up his clothes. The detective sighed in relief, stepping back. "Finally."

"I need a shower." John smirked. Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, his hand going to his forehead. 

"John, there is a newspaper downstairs." John ignored him, making for the bathroom. Sherlock followed him.

"Go. Read. It." John opened the door, each word short and punctual. 

"I. Don't. Understand. What. They're. Talking. About!" Sherlock hissed in return as John set his clothes up on the counter. He didn't look up, spinning his finger, telling him to turn around. Sherlock turned, the hiss of the water turning on making him jump a bit.

"What's so hard to understand about it?" John questioned, slipping his robes off. He turned and tossed them up over the ghosts head as if he were a coat rack, then stepped in, pulling the curtain closed.

"What is a cellphone? What is a viper? What is a glock? Why do they use the word 'nigga' as a term of endearment? What the hell does 'mah homie Jareed official, he like da pussy' even mean?!" Sherlock ripped the robes from his head, his black curls sticking up everywhere.

"They put that in the paper?" John was shocked. "Normally they try to touch up the language a bit. "I take it it was an attack. Jareed likes a woman, something happened and one of them was killed." John guessed. "You read a witness statement."

"I would have beaten my child to a twitching pile of goo if he were to speak like that." Sherlock muttered, holding the robes in his hand. "You're British for God's sake, have a little pride and say real words."

"It's this whole Pop and rap thing I guess." John agreed, grabbing the shampoo. Sherlock's forehead crinkled as the smell of John's shampoo reached his nose.

"I don't really know what those are." He admitted.

"Pop or Rap?" John stopped, looking up rather surprised even though he knew the detective couldn't see it. "They're genres of music." 

"I was never one to venture past classical." Sherlock admitted. "I prefer a violin to vocals." 

"Oh we can fix that." John grinned. He was excited to see how the detective would react to modern music, but the meaning was construed a bit in Sherlock's mind. 

The spirit looked back, his lips parted. The image of John making him moan quickly flashing through his mind. "Excuse me?"

"I know some great bands. You died before some of the greatest singers hit the stage. Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, The Ink Spots, The Andrew Sisters, then you have rock like Metallica, Black Sabbath. You missed out on the Backstreet Boys and Michael Jackson. Britney Spears and No Doubt or TLC. Those are just the American bands." Sherlock averted his eyes, feeling silly for having jumped to conclusions like that. 

“I suppose I have nothing better to do.” He muttered, rubbing the robes between his fingertips. He stood still in the middle of the bathroom, the smell of John's shampoo hitting his nose, followed by a musk that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up a bit. “What is that?” His forehead crinkled as he looked up at the shower. The way the light hit the curtains, the doctor's figure could be seen as a silhouette. 

“What's what?” John pinched his eyes closed as he rinsed his hair completely, his nose crinkled as a stray bit of shampoo found it's way under his eyelids -like every single time he took a shower. 

“That musky smell.” Sherlock said, draping the robes over an arm, his fingers caressing the cloth. It was a nice quality of fabric and he enjoyed the texture of it against his skin. Back when he had been alive, the materials that were needed to make something like that robe would have cost a bit. Someone like John -who had no job- could afford it now, which made him both excited yet depressed. 

“Oh,” John spit some of the water from his mouth. “Bvlgari body wash. I get it every year for Christmas, Harry like's to buy it for me even though it's expensive.” He said, running his hands over his body to rinse it off. “Why?” 

“It smells...” He trailed off, trying to find the right word that would get his point across yet not frighten the doctor. Because to be truthful, it was an arousing scent. “Delectable.” He grunted, adding finally after a minute of silence. He was sure that that would make John feel awkward. But when John laughed, Sherlock averted his eyes, feeling slightly ashamed.

“It's a great body wash.” John agreed. “Strong, sexy. Too expensive.” 

“But worth it I suppose.” Sherlock looked down at the robes, then for a moment lifted them to his face, smelling them. They had the faint smell of his body wash on it mixed with soap from the wash and something else. Sweat. Sweat from the times he had fallen asleep in it. Sweat from the nights when the heat never escaped the house and remained trapped in the upstairs. 

“Eh, I suppose. I mean a little goes a long way. I just feel bad that Harry keeps spending so much money on it every year.” The shower turned off. Sherlock's head snapped up as the curtain shifted a bit, his arm slipping out from behind it. “Can you grab me my towel please?” 

The detective didn't say anything as he turned around and grabbed a fluffy white towel off of the hook on the door and rested it in the doctor's hand. 

“Harry, is that your sister?” Sherlock questioned, wanting to keep the conversation going so that he wouldn't be caught in an awkward silence, even as he felt his fatigue starting to wear on him. He had been doing a lot of talking and reading and moving around the last few months and he knew that soon he might crash. Not to mention that the date was approaching sooner than he'd wanted to. 

“Yeah, she's uh...the dark haired one.” John wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out onto the mat at the base of the tub. “Well...darker haired one. The tall one who normally wears the pants.” John struggled a bit, trying to find a good way to describe her. Fortunately for him, Sherlock knew who he was talking about. 

“The one who helped you paint the downstairs.” He nodded, the dressing robes draped over his arm like a hand towel over a butler's arm. “Why not just tell her that you don't want her spending that much money on you?” He questioned. He never really understood why people continued to accept gifts even when they didn't want them. The first few times he'd received anything as a gift, he appreciated it, but when someone gave him the same thing over and over again he couldn't help but feel a bit irritated -and he didn't hesitate to let the person know exactly how he felt about it either. 

“I have, but she hummed and hawed over what to get me for the next couple years. I told her nothing, she didn't have to get me anything, but then she was right back to buying me the body wash so I don't even bother now.”

“'hummed and hawed'” The detective's nose crinkled as he repeated the saying. John snickered staring at him for a moment before shaking his head. 

“Taking a long time to make a decision.” He explained simply. 

“I see.” He trailed off, his eyes glued to John for a long moment before dropping the robes to the floor and turning, making for the door. “The paper, John.” The doctor groaned, rolling his eyes. Bending down he grabbed his robes off of the floor and watched as the ghost slipped out through the door. 

“I'm coming, I'm coming!” He brushed the cloth off before hanging it up. Sherlock made his way down the hall, his mind swimming with a thousand and one thoughts. New slang, new music, new _friend_. Everything was new to him now. 40 years since his last minimum contact with anyone and suddenly his world was exploding with new things. 

He made his way through the office to the kitchen where he had left the paper and sat down, staring at it. It had been a long time since he'd read anything that was up to date. All of his books were old -1930 being the last publish dated book to enter the house. None of them had the recent slang that littered this day and ages paper. He understood most of it, but some words were used in some ways that didn't make sense to him. Sentence structures were the same but the way they were formed were exhausting to read. Lack of punctuation or too much in too many places felt like an icepick being jammed into his temple as he tried to read it. Sometimes the paragraph would go on for multiple lines before there would be a period. There were a lot of _he said she said they said interviews that irritated him_. It was as if the person who had written the article didn't give a toss. 

That was probably it. They didn't give a toss about who could understand it. ADD, Sherlock imagined, judging by the persons inability to form a coherent sentence based solely on one point at a time. And while Sherlock could read, he'd always had difficulty with it anyway -something he would never tell John. It was a weakness for him, and an embarrassing one. He could write and read the words perfectly, but it was as if when he tried reading his mind whipped up a giant dictionary and threw thousands of meanings at him all at once that he would have to cycle through. And while it only took a couple of seconds to find the right definition, he would end up losing the meaning of the sentence and have to re-read it all over again -which was difficult to do when you had a run-on sentence whose only saving grace was commas. 

He tried to read it again but stopped when his mind stopped on a word and flipped through the pages of his mental dictionary and the rest of the sentence was lost. He closed his eyes, waiting for John to come downstairs. What was taking him so long anyway? He wanted to know what was going on in the world and the murder articles had him anxious. He wanted to know the details. The victim, the situation, where she was found. This was a new world, which meant new challenges. New ways to hide the bodies, new ways to kill the person and new crime scenes all together. 

Idly he tapped his fingers on the table, staring at the newspaper. Sighing he leaned back and hollered. “John!” The doctor yelled back, his words muffled and incoherent but Sherlock knew what was said. Leaning back in his chair he placed his legs on top of the table, tilting his head back. He thought of his life, wondering what would have happened if he hadn't died. Well, obviously he wouldn't be alive at that moment. He never would have gotten the chance to meet John. Not that that would have mattered. If he hadn't of died he wouldn't even know that John existed before he died of natural causes -old age or accidental work related injuries. 

What ever happened to Mycroft? Did he grow old and live a happy life with a family? Or did he have an unfortunate demise at the hands of a rogue sweet. That single donut that caused the strenuous weight of his double chin to finally crush his weakened trachea, the only thing keeping his throat from collapsing like the paper shielding of a restaurant straw being the half chewed pastry that had clung greedily to the sides of his brother's acidic murder chute? A smile came to his face as it ran through his mind. Had his brother heard that description he would have been flippant. 

What would he have said about the world around him today? Of course he'd probably have seen more of it than Sherlock did anyway. Maybe he knew of John? Mycroft knew of almost everyone, but the thought seemed preposterous as Mycroft would have been dead at least 10 years before John was born -unless John was older than he thought. 

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes closed as he thought; he was trying to keep the irritation from creeping up on him as he waited. What the hell was taking him so long? All he had to do was dry off and get dressed. Unless... 

Sherlock stopped, his eyes opening once more. They glided from the floor, up the wall to the ceiling. What if he was...doing something private? He bit his lip lightly. The thought of John sitting on the edge of the bed, resting on his bath towel, flesh still wet, face flushed red, lips parted. His pale skin hot to the touch but not enough to evaporate the droplets of water that raced down his chest and stomach. He was half tempted to hide himself and go up and see what he was doing. To see if his suspicion would be confirmed or not, but he knew that if John were to find out he'd never be forgiven. 

The first night of John living there had been the same. Sitting on the bottom of the bathtub, the hot water rushing over him. Sherlock sat on the edge of the tub, curious about the man whom had bought the house so many had run away from. He wanted to continue his haunting, but something stopped him. The expression of fear on his face as he was rattled, but there was something else. Defensiveness. He was defensive, and determined not to be run out. That was what had brought Sherlock into his curiosity. That look of defiance that screamed _you will not chase me out_. Like his own little challenge. 

He had given him little touches. Little connections with himself, disguised as nothing more than the wind. Even those touches were enough to send people running in the past, but not John. No, instead Sherlock had been taken aback when he saw that he had gotten an erection from it. Whether it be from the fear, or the touching. The ghost had felt very confused and had realized that John wasn't the same as the others. John didn't panic when he was touched, in fact, he seemed as if he'd welcomed it. 

Sherlock bit his lip, bringing his thumb up. He crossed his legs, keeping them propped up on the table, feeling awkward. He wasn't a homosexual. He never had been. He'd never even felt interested in having a relationship with anyone except... 

But now here he was, reflecting back on one of the most interesting people he had met in a long time, Even in his own life, psychopaths didn't seem half as interesting as John had. Part of him wanted to watch, to see what would the other man did, how he'd react; the other part of him wanted to grab him by the throat and force him out of the house that night. Scare him away for good. Drag his hands up and down his fit, fairly muscular body until his stupid little mind got the hint that it wasn't a natural breeze. But he froze. The only thing he could do was follow the shorter man to the bath tub and watch as he scrubbed at himself before placing the drain stopper into the drain and cranking the heat up. 

He had felt suffocated before, and he felt twice as suffocated after as he watched the intruder lower himself into the bathtub. He watched as John had started to drift off. He had told himself 'Sherlock, just go. Wait till he's done then you can chase him out' but he didn't move much past roosting on the edge of the tub. He reached forward, through the hot water and touched his chest, knowing that he would feel his fingers. John wasn't fully aware -one of the best times to touch someone in hopes to scare them off. When humans are fully aware, they aren't subjective to the paranormal, and he was sure that that would finally snap him out of it. 

But it didn't work out the way he wanted it to. Instead, John had moaned to the touch. A sound that made Sherlock's stomach wrench and twist. That was when his eyes opened. Sherlock nearly had withdrawn, the remnant of where his heart would have been leaping at the hazy, lustful gaze in the shorter man's bluish gray eyes. The ghost choked, his hand snapping out to grab the nude man by the throat, desperate to get at least a scream, or a gasp from him, but all he had done was encourage him. John tilting his head back, his eyes sliding closed once more and his legs spreading. 

Sherlock felt as if he were burning a fuse, his hand on the man's neck, his breathing caught, burning like fire in his lungs as his eyes darted up and down John's body. The tugging the man did on his erection, the thrusting of his hips causing the water to rush up and over his body. That was when the ghost got the name. _Mary._

He'd felt sick to his stomach. Sitting on the edge of a tub, watching this man please himself to -no-doubt- the image of his wife; his gyrating hips threatening an overspill of water onto the floor. Desperately he dragged his hand from his throat and pressed them to John's hips, all intent going towards keeping his bottom planted on the bottom of the tub. The ghost ignored his hand becoming engulfed in the nearly scalding hot water; at least until the water that rolled over his fingers turned from clear to white. 

Sherlock rubbed his fingers together, remembering the feel of it. The thick, white semen on his fingers, hot to the touch. He had panicked and ripped his hand away, rinsing it off in the wave that had washed it from John's stomach. He'd pushed himself to his feet in a flurry, his head swelling with some emotions he couldn't quite sort out -whether because he hadn't experienced them before or because he had spent so long dead. And it wasn't until John had started crying that Sherlock had realized the extent of the situation he'd imposed in on. 

John had been thinking about his wife. His deceased wife. John was alone, not because he was to be joined at a later date by his wife, or he just hadn't married, but because he was a widow. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, feeling guilt for his mind wandering back on that night. The night he'd let John know that he wasn't alone even after he'd told himself that he was to keep quiet. He wouldn't mind sitting on the sidelines, watching someone grow old and happy -albeit alone- in his home, but it was that single fleeting hope that maybe, just maybe they could cure each others loneliness. As colleagues, or companions. And for a moment he'd let his guard down, no longer hidden just enough for John to hear him. 

When he'd gotten to the door, he waited. Usually it was the sound of the footsteps that caused the potential buyers to go screaming for the door, but John hadn't moved. The ghost had half hoped that John would know he was there -after all he'd been dropping hints all day, whether that meant he was just being sarcastic with Mr. Albott or he had known and just didn't care. Everything seemed hopeful until that blasted cat meowed. He hushed it, trying to keep his voice down. That was when all hope that John had known he was there vanished. 

The shorter man threw on his closest outfit and ran past him and the cat. But he didn't pursue him right away. He stood there, stiffly in the middle of the hallway. He felt a similar loneliness he was often plagued with in life when someone called him a freak, or spit profanities his way, or reminded him of the fact he had no friends and he would die alone. It was the cat that followed him, stopping at the top of the stairs. Sherlock hadn't moved until John screamed for him to stop following him. But there was no sound of the door opening or closing. John hadn't left for the front door yet. 

Curiously Sherlock made his way to the stairs, but when he began walking again the sound of John's retreat was obvious. He shrugged it off the best he could, hardening himself once more. He knew that he wouldn't be able to live with John. He was dead and nothing was going to change that. But still, as John raced across the sopping wet ground to his car, the door left wide open, he couldn't help but feel the need to leave the door open just a crack; in case he decided to come back. 

“Hey, you're awfully quiet.” John said, walking in. Sherlock's eyes snapped up to him, not expecting to see his housemate. He had been so caught up in his memories he didn't even hear him come down the stairs. 

“What else am I supposed to do, talk to myself?” Sherlock retorted. 

“You do any other time.” John made his way for the fridge, slapping the bottom of Sherlock's foot as he passed as a way to tell him to remove his feet from the table. Sherlock obliged without a word. 

“I wouldn't eat the eggs.” Sherlock muttered, sitting up properly in the chair, turning his attention to the paper that he had slightly crinkled beneath his feet. “I'm sure they have hatched and grown to full size by now.” 

“Piss off.” John replied, bending down to look at the shelves. “I was playing with the cat.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock looked up insulted. “so the four legged beast takes precedent over my needs?” 

“Yep, and always will.” John grabbed the eggs and some vegetables and shut the fridge door behind him. 

“Why is that?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. John didn't look at him. Grabbing a glass bowl he opened up a couple of eggs, chopped up some onion and spinach finely and added them to the bowl. 

“Because you're dead and the cat's not.” He sprayed the pan and let it heat up before adding the egg. Once it was heated up, solidifying the egg on a single side he chopped up some ham and added in some grated cheese, peppers and a little more of the onions and spinach, then neatly folded the egg in half, dropping the heat to low and covering the pan. 

“I see, so while I live here and the cat doesn't you've taken it upon your responsibility to pamper the creature.” Sherlock said plainly, trying to understand the doctor's reasoning. 

“Sherlock, you're a big boy, albeit one that died 50 some odd years ago,” 

“81 in two months.” Sherlock replied almost in a huff. John turned, looking at him, a small smirk coming to his lips. Sherlock's stomach twisted as his eyes caught it, a thought running through his head. 

_Don't you dare-_

“Would you like me to hold it for you while you go pee-pee?” He questioned, his voice borderline baby-talk. Sherlock's eyes closed, feeling mocked, but he wasn't going to let this sassy bastard knock him down. 

“Only if you'll be careful of how you handle me, I know how you like to get rough handling other men-” John laughed, shaking his head. 

“Not gay.” 

“Don't offer.” Sherlock returned the smirk. “Besides I doubt you'd know how to handle my piece.” Sherlock flipped through the paper, looking at the classified ads -at least the people couldn't massacre ads to sell animals. 

“I was a doctor in the military, I've seen enough _pieces_ to make a Urologist seem inexperienced.” John crossed his arms, looking at the ghost. “So unless it's covered in scales and splits off into two separate limbs halfway down the shaft with hundreds of little heads on each limb, then I doubt I would have difficulty handling it.” He boasted, a smile on his face. Sherlock couldn't help but feel the need to prove him wrong, but he was sure that the doctor was right. “Let me guess, uncircumcised?” John smirked. Sherlock felt his cheeks redden at the guess. He looked down, stuttering a bit before stopping, clearing his throat. 

“Yes.” John smiled smugly, staring at him. 

“I knew it.” He turned back, flipping his eggs over, checking the middle. 

“I am certainly glad you guessed right almighty penis medium,” Sherlock muttered embarrassed. “now I can sleep at night.” John laughed, using the back of his hand to cover his mouth. 

“Penis medium.” He grabbed a plate and scooped out his food, cutting it in half with the spatula. Turning off the stove he grabbed a glass of milk and sat down across the table from Sherlock. “So, before when you said you have no interest in male or females, did that mean that you just...weren't attracted to them or you had other things on your mind?” John cocked an eyebrow, taking another forkful into his mouth. 

“I had other things on my mind.” Sherlock said simply. 

“So you never found any woman or man attractive ever.” John swallowed, clearing his throat before taking a drink of his milk. Sherlock looked up from the paper and just stared at him. After a minute he placed the paper back on the table and leaned back. 

“I had an interest in one woman.” He replied, looking off across the room, his eyes peering through the window to the ocean. “She was interesting; smart and beautiful. A wronged party in a case I had been hired for. Her former lover was seeking to marry another woman, royalty. His marriage was supposedly in jeopardy. Irene Adler, her name was. She had a photograph of her and this man. I never pursued anything with her.” He pushed the paper off to the side. “She ended up happily married and I was left with a photograph.” 

“You never pursued any other woman?” John looked at him, feeling sympathetic. 

“No, nor did I pursue a man either.” Sherlock confirmed. 

“Surely you must have...fooled around.” John put his fork on his plate. Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. In the end he sighed, shaking his head. 

“No. I didn't have intercourse with anyone. I took on a vow of celibacy lest I jeopardize my job.” He sat up straight, running his fingers through his hair. “I needed to focus on the next case, not...” His face twisted a bit as if he were unable to say it. “who will make me feel good next.” He spat. 

“Died a virgin at the age of 32.” John frowned. Irritation bristled through Sherlock, his nose crinkling. 

“Don't judge me for my actions, I had enough to deal with besides getting my genitals wet-” 

“I wasn't judging you! I wasn't-” John rose his voice, trying desperately to defend himself. “I just...I just thought that it's a damn shame.” John added as Sherlock calmed down. “I mean, yes, your passion was catching and solving mysteries, but there's more to life than that. Love, passion, sharing it with another person.” John looked at his plate. “It's terrifying and absolutely wonderful and it's just a damn shame that anyone would die before that.” Sherlock stared at him. John seemed sincerely upset that he hadn't had an intimate moment before he died. It baffled him a bit. No one cared whether Sherlock had had sex, or was in love, or had dreams and aspirations outside of his normal line of work. He was known as the _Psychopathic Consulting Detective_ ; he had no interest in anything else. 

And he had believed it. For many years he had believed everything that everyone said. He didn't need anything but someone to murder someone else, or a child to go missing, or someone to steal some precious heirloom. But here he was, an average, widowed man, straight -as far as Sherlock was concerned- feeling sorry for him never getting a chance to enact on his passion, or be deflowered or whatever word was best used for it. 

“I've had no interest.” Sherlock replied, looking away. And it was true. He had no interest; not until now. Suddenly John's phone went off, the ring echoing through the room, making the ghost jump a bit, his eyes sliding shut. He hated that. He absolutely hated that bloody phone more than anything in the world. 

“Hold on,” John stood up and pulled his cellphone out of his pants pocket. Sherlock watched as he made his way for the window, answering the call. “Hello, John Watson. Ah, Harry,” He smiled, leaning against the wall. “Sorry I didn't check the Caller ID. I knew it had to be either you, Clara, Molly or Anderson...no. Nope...I'm fine, just a little tired lately.” He smiled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Halloween party?” Sherlock perked up a bit, looking up. Normally he ignored the doctor when he pulled his phone out but the mention of Halloween had peaked his interest. Standing up he walked around the table and pressed his ear to the other side of the phone, smooshing John against the wall a bit. John laughed lightly, trying to push him off and failing. “Would you bugger off?” He whispered, putting his hand in Sherlock's chest. 

The good thing about being taller than his housemate was his advantage at being an arms length away, yet still have the neck length to keep right up against John. “No I wasn't talking to you.” John focused back on Harry, still trying to push the deceased detective away from him. Sherlock grabbed his hand, gently pulling it out of reach, his black curls brushing against John's cheek. “Why do you want a Halloween Party? Are you sure your house is going to be able to hold all of those guests?” He gave up, letting the detective listen in on the conversation. 

“Well it might be the last Halloween I get to see.” Harry replied sounding a bit solemn. John frowned. 

“Don't talk like that Harriet. When do you have to start the chemotherapy?” Sherlock groaned, wanting to get the small chat out of the way. John always got so sidetracked when it came to conversations with his sister, but he didn't say anything -Harry and Clara still had no idea he even existed. 

“After my radiation is over. I don't want to do it anymore, John.” She whined. “I'm burnt all across the hips and it burns when I pee. It's just...it sucks.” 

“I know but you'll make it through, you always were the most stubborn out of both of us.” John attempted to joke, although his smile was forced. “I know a diet that you'll hate, but it'll work.” 

“John, I'm dieing of cancer and you want me to lose weight?” She groaned. 

“No, no, just...listen. Research has shown that fasting is able to catabolize tumors. Some people go water fasting but sometimes it's not enough. Mix that with juice fasting.” He explained. “Juice fasting rebuilds and replenishes the body with nutrients and promotes healing. Cancer fights for the body's resources. You lose the weight when you have cancer because the cancer is consuming the glucose in your blood. Just drink 2 to 5 glasses of juice a day, but you have to have leafy vegetables like spinach, chard and parsley to support the bodies immune system. You and Clara have that juicer still, right?” She hesitated, staying quiet for a moment before speaking. 

“Yeah, I don't like the sound of it.” She admitted. Harry had always been a _eat meat and fruit regularly_ type of person. She preferred solid food. 

“It's a pain in the ass.” John agreed. “I did it with Mary when we first found out.” 

“Didn't seem to work for her.” Harry replied plainly. John frowned, swallowing hard. He nodded. 

“There were...other complications that were involved with Mary. You're not too far in, and with the Chemo you should be fine. Just...drink the juice, go on the fast for the time you are doing the chemo, start now if you want. Eat raw nuts and seeds, that should help support your body against the side effects of the chemo.” He licked his lips, worried, then decided it would be best to change the subject -the detective's breath on his shoulder was making him feel awkward. “So the Halloween party. What did we have planned for that?” 

“Right, well I was thinking dual joint party. Hold the first half here, maybe the last half at your place?” She opted. John paled a bit, biting his lip. 

“I don't know, there's a lot of nothing here.” 

“But you have like...tons of space. Outside, by the ocean. Places for people to sleep if they get smashed. It's perfect.” _Yeah, but I have a ghost here_. John thought, idly reaching up, playing with one of Sherlock's buttons on his shirt subconsciously. 

“It's not because half of the people in Bristol think it's haunted, is it?” He questioned, although he knew the answer. People thought that his house was haunted and they wanted to have a Halloween party in a haunted house in the middle of nowhere with alcohol and Ouija boards and stuff like that. Which meant he would have to hide Sherlock away for the entire party and he didn't think he could do that. It wouldn't be fair. “I'll have to think about it, see if the old house will withstand the guests and if there's enough room for people to stay over in case we do end up having a scandalous night of imbibing alcohol.” He forced a smile, but he already knew the answer. No. That was simple enough, but he didn't want to be the jerk and shoot down Harry's plans before even thinking about them -or seem like he was. 

“Alright, I hope you say yes, because I have some epic plans all sorted out.” The smile on her face was obvious through the tone in her voice, and already John felt like a jerk for having to say no. “I'll let you go, you think on that and call me back or text when you figure out the answer. I have to go pick up Clara at the Gynecologist anyway.” 

“TMI Harry,” John chuckled. “I'll talk to you later.” And with that he hung up, tucking his phone back in his pocket. He gently pushed against Sherlock's chest to make him back up, but the detective was already making the move. 

“Halloween party.” Sherlock shifted. 

“Yeah, as you heard, Harry wants us to have half of it here.” John turned and retook his seat to finish eating his -now cold- breakfast. 

“Are you going to say yes?” Sherlock looked at him, figuring that the shorter male wouldn't. 

“No.” John shook his head, shoveling some food into his mouth. Sherlock blinked, being quiet for a moment. 

“Why not?” 

“Because you're here.” John chewed and swallowed, using a napkin to wipe his mouth. 

“So you're going to pin the blame on my existence.” 

“No I'm trying to be considerate.” John put his fork down, feeling agitated by the ghosts habit of twisting words. “If people come here, you have to go into hiding and I don't think it's right you have to hide in your own house. So the answer's no.” 

“Who said I have to hide?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. John stopped and looked up at him shocked at what he was suggesting. 

“Sherlock you're a ghost! I told them the house wasn't haunted so they wouldn't come over and poke and prod at you and now you want to just...flash off that you exist?!” Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing irritatedly. 

“John, All Hallows Eve or Samhain is the celebration of the dead.” John's features switched from shocked to confused. Sherlock rolled his eyes, a sarcastic, mocking smile stretched across his face. “On Halloween the ghosts of the dead are able to mingle with the living, the dead walk among us, malevolent spirits pass through the veil into the world through Ouija boards on this night because the realm of the living is closer to the realm of the dead on this night than any other night?” John continued looking at him slightly confused. “For Christ's sake John!” Sherlock boomed. “I'll be a real boy!” He slammed his hands on the table. “Every Halloween the dead roam the Earth! Children wear masks to keep hidden from demons and other ghouls who would sooner steal them away! John this is the one day a year I can leave this property and explore! Invite your guests, I will be human, I will be whole, I will be able to go with you wherever you drag me!” 

John's breath caught in his throat, imagining driving the ghost around Bristol. Driving him to his sisters house! 

“Nope, nope.” John shook his head. “Nope, Sherlock, nope. Not going to happen.” He pushed himself to his feet. Sherlock looked at him taken aback then grabbed his shoulders. 

“John, I have been trapped in this house for 80 years. That's 80 years too long. I need to get out, I need to see what the world has to offer. I need to be free for a night!” He hissed, his eyes burrowing into John's sternly. 

“Why don't you just walk out and walk to Bristol then?” John opted. Sherlock groaned, pulling away. 

“John it's a 3 hour walk, by the time I get to anything worth while I have to make my way back to the house before the sun comes up. It hardly leaves me any time to do anything.” He rapped his knuckles against the tabletop. “Just this once, it doesn't have to be every year, I just...” He stopped, his throat feeling tight as he swallowed back. 

“What do I tell them?” John looked at him, feeling slightly guilty but over all worried about the plan of action. 

“I'm a friend, distant friend maybe. John you're smart, think of something.” John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He still wasn't sure if it was a good idea or not, but Sherlock was right. Being stuck in this house for 80 years must have been torture, especially to someone like Sherlock. It would be enough for a night, and until then John could educate him just enough to make the detective slip into public unnoticed. It was only fair. 

“Fine, I'll think of something, but you have to learn how to read the newspaper at least.” John pointed at him before taking his phone out again. Sherlock smiled, feeling an odd spark of excitement course through his body. Walking around the table, John grabbed the chair nearest to where Sherlock had been sitting and grabbed the newspaper. Still focusing on his phone he sent Harry a text that simply said “Ok”. 

It was just Halloween, things couldn't get messed up too bad in a single night, could they? 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween has come and John is excited to figure out what it is that Sherlock wants to do first. When the detective expresses his interest in seeing his grave, John is, yet again, reminded that his roommate is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry for taking so long to update. I ended up getting into the Avengers and Thor so I got a bit distracted. Plus dealing with my mother who told me I should stop writing stories and wasting my life on something I'm never going to get better at, so I present to you a crappy chapter while I try to talk myself out of disliking my mother enough to finish my funk and actually do something creative.
> 
> Thank you for understanding.

Chapter 8

 

John woke up, the sky gray and gloomy. Raindrops pounded against the window to his room. There was a thick blanket of clouds that blocked the gray sky in an even darker shade of gray. He groaned, stretching his legs out. He expected his feet to collide, but when his legs were able to extend completely without anything to stop them, he looked down confused. 

Pushing himself up he looked around the bedroom, expecting to see the detective looking about at some unmentionable detail in the room, or sitting by the door with his fingertips pressed together, or see him in the office attached to the room, doubled over his desk writing frivolously on a dull yellow sheet of paper -he didn't like the lines on regular notebook paper, and he complained about the unnatural whiteness of computer paper. But there was nothing. 

He dragged his fingers through his hair, feeling sleepy still. Yawning he laid back down again, wanting to get some sleep when he heard the sound of a violin. It was curious; the violin. And it played a familiar song that he couldn't quite place until it was accompanied by a deep, musical voice, muffled by the floor. 

John let his eyes slide shut, listening to his housemate sing. His voice complimented by the hum of the violin he was playing -and that John didn't even know the ghost had in possession. The bed shifted a bit as the cat climbed up. She purred loudly, curling up by John's head. He laughed lightly, turning his face so it wouldn't meet with her bottom and reached up, petting her behind the ears. 

Over the past couple of weeks John had done his best to catch Sherlock up to speed with the rest of the world. He'd gone through music genres from the 30's to current times and so far it seemed as if Sherlock had shown most interest in music from the 60's and the 90's. John didn't mind sitting there, his feet rested on the hard wooden coffee table, his laptop warming up his thighs as the ghost sat beside him. Occasionally, John would have to choose one of the chairs to sit in as the detective claimed the entire couch, his fingertips pressed together as he listened to the abnormally long list of mostly neglected music. 

He took a deep breath, feeling relaxed as the faint singing filled his ears. Sherlock had done well to pretend he wasn't interested in any of the modern music John had to offer, but occasionally, when the detective thought that no one could hear, he could be heard singing lyrics from Florence, or Jillette Johnson. And his voice sounded very nice when he sat in the next room, singing James Blunt songs. 

He laid there in the peace of the morning until he felt sleep start to take over again. Forcing his eyes open he sat up. He didn't mind sleeping for an hour or two longer -he sure did need it most night with the ghost's midnight noise- but he couldn't sleep in, not today. Pushing himself out of bed he slipped on a pair of red underwear and wrapped himself up in his dressing robes. He moved quickly but quietly through the house, wanting to sneak up on the ghost. 

Sherlock never sang in front of John, nor did he play his violin except for once in a while. He claimed that while he was good, he was rusty and it wasn't needed; any chance that John got to hear him sing or play he took. Carefully he made his way down the stairs, the cat following behind him quickly. Slipping out of the doorway at the bottom of the steps he made his way to the door leading into the living room and waited. 

The ghosts voice sounded close, but not close enough to have been coming from the living room. Grabbing the door he slid out, making sure not to step on the cat as he made his way across the living room. Sherlock stopped singing but his bow continued to glide across the strings, changing from "Ashes and Wine" by A Fine Frenzy to "The Parting Glass" covered by Ed Sheeran. John leaned against the door frame as he sang.

"Of all the money, that e'er I had, I spent it in good company. Of all the harm that, e'er I've done, alas it was to none but me." 

"Sudden change of mood?" John spoke up. Sherlock stopped, putting the violin down. In a single styrofoam cup on the table was a little sprout packed in dirt. 

"Experiment John." He removed his feet from the table and placed them on the floor.

"Which plant will wilt first at the sound of your singing?" John cocked an eyebrow, teasingly. 

"How much of your blood I can give it before it turns carnivorous and starts killing people." Sherlock corrected with the same amount of sass. 

"The singing is just to break it's sanity quicker right?" John snickered.

"No, I have to get it used to my voice so I can command it." The corner of the detective's lips twitched into a faint smile. 

"So you're singing?" John's eyebrow raised, his lips pursed. His arms were crossed as he leaned against the archway between both rooms. 

"Of course, John, because knowing me I'll be so overwhelmed with excitement at the fact these miserably stupid younger generations will be murdered deliciously by an angry bean plant that all normal vocalization will be done in a sing-song manner." John eyebrows knitted together a bit curiously, a smile coming to his face.

"It's a bean plant?" He pointed.

"Of course it's a bean plant, what else would it be?" Sherlock's nose crinkled as if he'd expected it to be obvious. 

"I don't know, Venus fly trap?" John shrugged. 

"And where am I to get the sapling for that? Order it with my non-existing currency over your crotchtop? Use your head John please, I implore you." John glared at him.

"It's called a laptop, and how do you keep getting into it? I shut it down every night." He walked over, grabbing it off of the table beside the ghost. 

"I log on." 

"It's password protected." John rose his voice but Sherlock stared at the violin bow in his hands as he twirled it.

"It wasn't that difficult to figure it out. The laptop is about five years old so it was one you got before your wife passed away, according to the scratches it's been in and out of a duffle case and the barcode number is identical to one that came out of a foreign shop but still second hand. So gift while overseas in the military. Rank, first letter of first name, first four letters of last name last four digits of social security number. Resulting in Captain J Wats 4639." He stopped twirling the bow and looked at him. John stared at him, holding the laptop in his hands incredulously. Sherlock realized what he had just done and looked down at his violin. “Sorry.” 

“No, that...was...amazing.” John muttered. The detective looked up curiously, not having heard that one before. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, you found out that the laptop was bought out of the country because of the barcode? You died in 1930 how the hell did you figure that out?” Sherlock chuckled, nodding. 

“Reading John and comparison. What do you think I use your crotchtop for? Certainly not what you do.” He sat up straight, wiping his hand on his pants as he placed his violin on the table along with the bow. “Any item you bought online overseas has different barcodes. ISBN-13 is used for books though most UPC barcodes use 12. There are some UPC that only use 8 digits. Barcodes found outside of the US such as EAN-13 and EAN-8 though UPC version A is the most common. First number in a barcode represents the type of product, 0 indicates regular UPC codes, a 3 means it needs to be weighed at the store and 4 is used in drug and health items. The next five numbers of course are the manufacturer's identification number. Then the next 5 are the distributors or manufacturer’s item number for the product. Last number is the check digit.” He explained. 

“So what did you get from the actual barcode?” John looked down at the faded ink of the barcode on his -now ancient- seeming laptop. 

“It wasn't originally sold in the UK. It was sold in the US and was sent to someone, perhaps a loved one who joined the military after migrating overseas here. The person loved the crotchtop which explains the near perfect condition it's in although a bit slow. Could be those images you look at, John.” he snickered. John felt his face turn hot at the mention of his pictures, but he let the ghost continue. “It was given to you for a specific reason. Perhaps you two were close friends, but what made him give it away?” John licked his lips, looking down at the computer thoughtfully before clearing his throat. 

“It belonged to a Michael Stratton. We were in the same class at the medical school I attended. We became pretty good friends until we went our separate ways.” He looked down at the light scratches on the casing of his laptop. “We met up again in basic training and were roomed together overseas in Afghanistan.” He trailed off, his forehead crinkling as the memories came back to him. A muscular man, very kind. He'd moved to the UK when he attended University. He had been living in the country for 5 years when he decided to join the military. “I watched him get shot. Two weeks before I did, he took a bullet to the shoulder and the left lung. I held him in my arms as he died.” Sherlock didn't say anything, his lips pursed slightly as he rested his cheek against his knuckles, staring at John, reading his expression of sadness. “He'd written that he wanted me to have his laptop since his family back home already had one and I didn't really have a method of contacting Harry. He never did like that.” He laughed dryly before turning it over to look at the barcode. 

“A man who appreciated family very much and thought you should keep in contact.” Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone, almost approvingly. “And why didn't you?” His eyebrow cocked, his head turning to the side a bit inquisitively. 

“Ah, Harry had a drinking problem and she had a habit of treating Clara badly.” John's nose crinkled a bit as he explained, forcing a smile. Reaching forward he placed the laptop back on the table. “I didn't want anything to do with Harry for that.” Pushing the laptop farther onto the table he looked back at the ghost and ran his fingers through his hair. “I feel like a tosser now when I look back on that.”

“No need to feel that way, John.” Sherlock put his arm down and stood up, stretching his legs. “You didn't appreciate your sister treating your sister in law negatively so you distanced yourself from it. She deals with it and you don't make matters worse as well as avoiding the problem all together.” he shrugged. “Why put yourself into the middle of the problem when it doesn't concern you anyway? That's how you make matters worse -and quite frankly it's awfully boring.” John's eyebrows knitted together, not really agreeing with everything the detective said, but from a very _sadistic Vulcan_ perspective he could see where he was coming from when he said it. 

“Well, it's over with now.” John sighed, swallowing hard as he turned and made for the kitchen to grab himself a cup of coffee. Grabbing a mug out of the cupboard he turned to his coffee maker and froze at the little display of the date under the time. “The 31st” He smiled. “Sherlock it's the 31st.” 

“What of it?” The detective was right back into the laptop, looking through the news. John turned, looking at him incredulously. 

“You're serious right now? You've only been bugging me about carting you around hells creation when Halloween came and it's here and now you're more interested in a computer?” Sherlock looked up at him confused for a moment, his lips slightly puckered in a pondering fashion, then as if the realization his him his eyebrows rose, his lips parting. 

“Oh, ok.” He looked down at the laptop, typing something into the search bar. John just stared at him, waiting for some other reaction -maybe a smile, or some demonstration of happiness. When he got neither he shook his head, his teeth clicking a bit as he looked from his coffee cup to the ghost. 

“You are a serious boob, you know that?” The name caught Sherlock's attention, his lips parting as he looked up, taken aback a bit. 

“What? Why am I a boob?” He frowned, his forehead crinkling. 

“You just are. You're an emotionally constipated boob and I'm not taking it back.” Turning his back on the dark haired man sitting astonished at the kitchen table. Grabbing the coffee pot he poured himself a cup and turned, heading back to the table to get comfortable. He wasn't going to run right out and do Sherlock's chores, no, not when he just woke up. “What are you even looking up?” John asked, blowing across the top of his steaming cup; his hands cupped the porcelain of the mug, absorbing the warmth. 

“Where I was buried.” Sherlock said simply, but the reply made John freeze. He stared at the detective for a long moment, feeling guilty and a little bit sad. He never thought of what it could feel like, living for 80 years and never knowing what happened with your body. Where you were buried -if you'd been buried at all. Sometimes he forgot that Sherlock wasn't even alive. It was like living with a living roommate who never left the house. 

“Any luck?” The doctor muttered, pressing his lips to the cup to sip at the hot liquid, but changing his mind when a small bit that touched his lips proved that it hadn't quite cooled down yet. 

“Private cemetery. Located on Chew Valley Lake.” He pressed his fingertips together thoughtfully in front of his lips as if trying to imagine what the place looked like and why he was buried there. 

“I know the place you're talking about.” John nodded. He had driven by it when him and Harry were going for a drive on their way back into Bristol. It was a lovely little place. Clean, peaceful if not a bit desolate. It was small and owned by an older man who originally buried his family members there, but when he got into old age he opened it to other people. Family friends, neighbors, people who had felt especially connected with the place. The thought came to mind, making him wonder if he had seen Sherlock's grave or not. 

“Good, that is the first place I want to go.” The detective replied, although his voice was quiet. There was a curious look in his eyes that John couldn't quite place. Sadness? Concern? Disgust? He didn't question it though. Nodding he took a deep swig of his coffee now that it had cooled and placed the cup on the table. Digging his knuckles into the arms of the chair he pushed himself to his feet and made his way around the table, heading back upstairs to get dressed. 

“We need to get you changed into different clothes before we go anywhere.” John hollered as he walked through the living room. The detective's eyebrows furrowed confused as he pulled his face from his hands. 

“What?” 

“We can't have you going anywhere dressed as if you're from the 1930's. Sure it's Halloween but your 33 years old and even children don't dress up into their costumes until 5 or 6.” He slipped in through the office and made a dash up the stairs, dragging a hand down the cat that had gone back up to sit at the top of the steps. 

“What am I to wear?” Sherlock rolled his eyes a bit, leaning against the wall as John rounded the railing. The doctor jumped a little. He was having a hard time getting used to his ability to just vanish and appear anywhere he wanted, but he was getting used to it. 

“Maybe Harry left some clothes over here the last time she visited.” John mused, walking past him without looking up. 

“You want me to wear your sister's clothes?” The ghost scoffed, an eyebrow dipping. 

“Come on, Harry wears some pretty manly things.” John pushed open the bedroom door and walked in. Walking over to a couple laundry baskets he hadn't quite emptied yet he began looking through them. Harry had come over to visit a few times and ended up staying the night. Being a drunk, she always seemed to forget something over there and John took the liberty of washing them for her. 

After rummaging through the clean clothes for a few moments, drifting from one basket to another he finally pulled out a pair of jeans and tossed them back to him. Sherlock lashed out almost clumsily -having been taken off-guard as he pet the cat whom had followed John into the bedroom- and grabbed them. “Do you have knickers?” 

“That can be tucked into this suffocating pair of trousers?” Sherlock looked at the doctor skeptically. John chuckled and shook his head. 

“I'll let you borrow a pair of mine,” whirling around he pointed at the detective in a warning manner. “Just this once. Don't make a habit of it.” Turning he made his way across the room to his dresser and pulled out a pair that he hardly used -he wouldn't be too heart broken if he had to throw them away, after all it was kind of odd sharing underpants with another man. Turning he tossed them at the detective, then pulled one of his longer- dark purple t-shirts from one of the drawers and tossed it back to him. “There you go. Go get dressed- or, shower first.” John added quickly. “You smell like a fireplace and burning hair.” Sherlock gave him a light smirked, holding the clothes in his hands. 

“Given the state of which I died, I'm surprised I don't smell like anything else.” Turning he made his way for the bathroom, vanishing once he stepped out through the door. John shook his head, smirking a bit at the morbid hint to the detective's death. Sherlock had done a great job desensitizing him to it over the past couple of months. He had shown his distaste in John pitying him for his death multiple times, and for a long while John couldn't help himself. He knew that if he had been murdered he would have been even a little bit bitter about it, but Sherlock had shrugged it off and even insisted on making jokes about it -his way of getting rid of that awkward, mournful silence every time John mentioned something about catching something on fire, or the repugnant smell of something burning. 

“If you do I don't smell it.” He said, starting to put the clothes back where he'd found them. “After all, spend enough time with it and even assholes lose the smell.” he snickered, waiting for a reply as the shower started running. When he got nothing after a few moments he stood up, looking towards the door wondering if the ghost had gotten the joke -or if he even realized that a joke was being made. “I was joking.” He called into the other room in an attempt to confirm that no damage was meant to be done. 

“Ugh.” He grunted back, unenthusiastically. John rolled his eyes, tossing a shirt he'd been folding onto the bed. It was hit and miss with the ghost John had noticed early on. Either because of lack of reference or his mind brought him onto something more interesting than the idle banter they were currently engaged in. 

Things had certainly changed for him though. When he first bought the place he feared that the rest of his days would be spent mourning over the loss of Mary. Like the dreary year he'd spent in his old place, but living with Sherlock had been completely different. He seemed very lively and spirited as far as everything went. He kept John busy, that was for sure, keeping his mind off of Mary. 

He frowned, starting to feel a bit guilty. He had almost forgotten completely in the rush that he had been married. He'd rarely thought of her since he moved in and that was unacceptable. They had been married for almost 8 years and here he was, a year after her death yucking about like a college boy in a dorm, listening to music, watching movies, having admittedly gay pudding fights with a dead man that resulted in him getting a new couch and having to paint the walls again. 

Sighing he dragged his hand across his face. He needed to go visit Mary's grab, even if it was to apologize. But not today, he had things to do. 

Looking up he noticed that the water in the other room had stopped running, meaning that the ghost had finished up. John smiled, waiting, working on a sassy greeting for when he returned -after all, he wasn't Sherlock with a highly wired mind for observation and sarcasm. But the detective didn't come out right away. 

Ten minutes passed, John beginning to worry. It was Halloween, Sherlock had seemed so excited up day actually came -and he doubted the ghost would be too finicky over his personal hygiene given his time period. John continued to wait, drumming his fingers on the side of the bed when the thought came to mind _what if something happened?_

John froze, his heart leaping a bit. But it was impossible, Sherlock was dead, there wouldn't be a possible way in which he could die...unless he was alive alive on Halloween...

Panicking John pushed himself to his feet and made his way across the bedroom. Pushing the door open he quickly made his way to the bathroom. Shoving the door open he rushed in. The sound of water dripping reaching his ears, but no running water could be heard. “Sherlock?” John gasped, not seeing the ghosts shadow through the shower curtain. “Sherlock!” Rushing over he whipped the curtain open, revealing the detective's cold corpse and charred sunken in flesh, floating on rust stained water. 

The ghosts eyes snapped open. Quickly he sat up, the water returning clear as he did, the affects on his flesh vanishing as well. He looked at John questioningly, covering himself as water dripped from his chin. 

“What? What is wrong?” He hissed urgently, wiping the water off of his face. 

“Are...are you alright?” John squeaked, unable to tell what it wast that had just happened. He'd never seen a decaying body, soaking in a bathtub before and it terrified him, but what was the most terrifying about it was that his pale flesh in the water, reflecting the light from the large window on the other side of the room was beautiful to him. 

“I'm...fine.” Sherlock shook his head, covering himself. He gave John a pensive look for a moment before reading his expression as both fear and bewilderment. “You thought that I'd died?” He cocked an eyebrow, trying to fight against a smirk. 

“I just...I mean you're alive on Halloween, I wasn't sure if something happened and you died or...” John trailed off, his eyes skimming down across the detective's hairless body, his wet hair sticking to his face. Sherlock laughed, nodding. 

“John, I'm dead, even on Halloween, I just have a physical body. If I'm shot, I heal like I would if I'm shot in this house any other day. If I drown, I stay dead for a few moments until my lungs are cleared of water either with the assistance of someone else or my own body.” Reaching forward he pulled the curtain closed just enough to cover himself before pulling the plug on the tub, draining the water. John watched as the droplets of water dripped from his body, glistening in the sunlight. 

Reaching out he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, drying off. “I appreciate the concern though.” He snickered almost teasingly. “I'm glad that you care about me so much, you wouldn't want me to die again.” Stepping out he stood in front of John, staring into his eyes. The doctor felt a flush of heat rush over him as he stared up into the detectives baby blue eyes, his pale skin illuminated by the sunlight behind him making him almost glorious looking. He was like his own personal angel, but when the thought crossed his mind he felt awkward and slightly disturbed. Shaking his head he attempted to push the thoughts away by averting his eyes, looking at the tub. 

“Why did you look like that?” John questioned. “You were burned to death, you looked more like you had drowned and were rotting in the bathtub.” Sherlock raised both eyebrows as he looked back at the tub, a perturbed expression dancing across his face.

“Was it that disgusting? I mean, to use the word _rotting_.” John didn't answer right away before he realized that what he had said really did seem like he found it disgusting. Inhaling sharply he held the breath, shaking his head. 

“No! No, I was just...poor choice of words.” He licked his lips, his eyes apologetic. Sherlock nodded, smiling faintly. Looking back at the tub he thought of a good way to explain what John had seen to him. 

“Our default state of death is just...death. Or primary state of death is how we died. So basically when you die you have the injury. I died by a fire, my flesh and meat and organs were all burned, but you take away the fire and you have...” He trailed off, looking back at John. 

“A...dead...body?” 

“Very good. The default state of death is just the corpse. Add it to fire it doesn't matter what you died of your flesh and organs will burn and melt. Take your default state of death and add it to water, it doesn't matter if you died in a fire your flesh will react as if you died a water death. I don't fully understand it either.” he admitted. “I climbed in, relaxed, my default state of death kicked in and...I _decomposed_ in your bathtub.” He explained, finishing it up with a chipper grin. “I'm glad you were so worried about me,” Pausing, he noticed the faint blush in the doctor's cheeks that had failed to fade away, his smile twisting just a little bit as a thud of pride forced his still coursing blood through his veins. “Or did you come in just to see me nude and wasn't expecting to see me like that?” 

John's eyes snapped up, catching the ghosts as his heart pounded awkwardly in his chest. He didn't know how to react to that even though he knew it wasn't true. Stuttering he turned and grabbed the bathroom door, growling. “Shut up.” That was all he could get out. Pulling the door open he stepped out, shutting the door tightly behind him. Sherlock looked after him shocked, not expecting that sort of response. “And hurry up and get dressed! You want to be able to get up there before the sun sets and we need to finish grabbing the last of the goodies!” 

A smile slowly returned to John, the sound of desperation in his voice as he spoke laced with embarrassment. Sherlock found it adorable. Without saying anything, he turned and dried off. He was excited to see where tonight would lead them on All Hallows Eve.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes Sherlock to the cemetery to see where it was he was buried and the ghost finds out that he wasn't as disliked as he thought he was. Heading back they do some last minute shopping before running into a friend of John's from his last job, Molly Hooper who was invited to the party. In the midst of drunkenness, some things are said that might be regretted later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the longest chapters. I was going to split it in half but I decided that we should just get to the party or what-not.

Chapter 9

 

 

John watched as the landscaping around him zipped by, the car quiet save for the light rock he played on the radio. In the passenger seat beside him the ghost stared out the window, his fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of the door which was safety locked in case something happened.

It had been a rather interesting first 20 minutes of the ride. The ghost panicking every time he broke 40 miles per hour. More than a few times had John's driving prompted an _are you trying to get us killed John? You're bollocks at driving, at this rate I would rather walk!_ But he never made a move to actually get out of the car.

After getting used to the speed and smoothness of the car -and the craziness of the other drivers that accompanied them on the road- he eventually relaxed just enough so he was silent, yet tense enough to constrict all blood from properly rushing to his fingertips with the way his fingers were balled up, the knuckles leaving his pale skin paper white.

Turning up a small road, driving into the woods he carefully moved along a dirt path, being careful to stay far to the right without grinding the side of the car against a brick wall, avoiding the dirt drop off on the other side of the road that lead down a hill and into a couple of camps.

Sherlock pushed himself up, looking out through John's window as they crept along, a slight tic of worry in his features as he stared down the decline. John smiled. His normal emotionless and sarcastic self was gone, here you had a generally, very well alive version of the detective, his nervousness well hidden, but still apparent.

“You alright?” John teased, driving along.

“Keep to the right, John.” He muttered.

“I know how to drive this road Sherlock.” He stared up at the detective, his eyes flicking back and forth from the curving dirt trail to the deceased, tense detective that was reminding him ever so much of a Meerkat. “Would you relax?” John reached over, pulling gently down on the front of the ghosts shirt. He felt a quick spark rush up through his finger as it grazed his stomach through the cloth. He couldn't get over it, the solid feeling even though Sherlock had told him repeatedly that he felt like a normal person. Ghosts were supposed to not be touched, they were supposed to be soft, non-existant except for feeling cold. Yet every time he touched Sherlock, he was reminded that that wasn't the case. That he was just as solid -if not more- than any other living being.  
  
"John we're going to fall." Sherlock muttered, staring at the edge of the hill as if he were expecting it to just fall away any minute.  
  
"We are not going to fall," John chuckled, looking up at him. "Besides, even if we did what why would it be so bad? The worst that would happen is I die."  
  
"I can't drive this vehicle, John, stop being stupid and keep your eyes on the path." He sat back down, fidgeting in his seat.   
  
"Is that really all that would bother you?" John looked at him slightly hurt. "That I wouldn't be able to cart your bloody ass back and forth?" He turned his Attention back to the road.  
  
"Why else?" Sherlock questioned, resting his lips nervously against his clenched fingers, not really hearing John's question. John stared at him for a long moment, the urge to reach over and cuff him then kick him out flaring up, but he'd never kicked someone out of his car before in his life, and even just thinking about it brought up some guilty feeling emotions.  
  
Sherlock remained silent for a little while as they reaches the end of the diet path, turning onto a small road that brought them winding along the lake. He was going over in his mind everything he had said, wondering exactly what he had said to make the ride so quiet now that he was able to relax. Swallowing, he realized that what he had said possibly could come off as sounding heartless -something he wasn't used to monitoring before he met John. Opening his mouth he looked at the doctor as he continued to drive, his lips parted. "I didn't mean that." He said at last.  
  
"No?" John spoke sharply, an obvious representation of his anger. Sherlock licked his lips, grimacing. He didn't know that something that simple could offend anyone so much, again, he never cared with anyone but John.  
  
"No." He replied simply.  
  
"Then what did you mean, Sherlock?" John questioned aggressively.  
  
"If you were to die in this car, you would pass on.” Sherlock began explaining. “If for some reason you did remain here on Earth you would be tethered to this car.” He trailed off. John didn't say anything for a long moment, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't he looked at the ghost, his forehead crinkled.

 “And?”

“ _And_ you would be stuck here in this car for eternity until you passed on.” Sherlock finished, feeling slightly embarrassed as John pressed. When Sherlock was alive he never really put too much stock into having friends -to him they were a commodity that risked him being distracted. But now that he was dead, he didn't have to worry about distraction, in fact, he welcomed it. He was just...having a hard time saying that out loud or even admitting that to himself. But John wasn't going to just accept that. Sighing he rolled his eyes and shook his head, looking back out the window.

“Like you give a toss.” He grunted.

“I give a toss,” Sherlock looked at him, his eyebrows knitting a bit.

“No you don't.” John interrupted him. “You don't give a toss about anyone but yourself and that's how it's been all of these years, even when you were alive, hasn't it?” He looked at the detective. 

“No,” Sherlock attempted to defend himself. 

“Yes-” 

“No-” 

“Yes that's exactly right. You don't give a damn about anyone but yoursel-” 

“Not anymore!” Sherlock shouted, making the doctor jump a bit in his seat. “I didn't give a damn when I was alive because I couldn't let myself and no one deserved it!” He snarled. “People made it very, _very_ clear that I wasn't wanted around and I went out of my way to grant that for them, and even with people who wanted to be with me and I wanted to be with them I wasn't allowed or they would distract me or I would lose them!” John looked at him, feeling his throat tighten up as the ghost hollered. “I'm dead! I'm gone, deceased I have nowhere to go, nothing to do, no one to love or care about, I have nothing to lose except you! If I lose you I have nothing again, you're my friend, the only friend I've ever had besides the limited employer employee relationship Lestrade and I shared and I don't want to lose this this early!” 

The words hit John hard, immediately feeling regret for what he has said earlier. Licking his lips he looked at the detective, wondering how hard it must have been for him to admit that given his personality.

They remained silent as they continued, eventually coming up on a nice little cemetery over looking the lake. John parked the car just outside the fence and shut it off. He didn't move to get out right away, allowing the silence to sink in before speaking up. “Do...you know where it is?” The ghost didn't speak right away, his eyes skimming over the land and the tombstones. After a moment he shook his head. 

“There are too many stones here from around my time period given the decay, I don't know if my stone was marble or granite, if it was marble I have about...200 stones to choose from, no family plot, then it would depend on who it fell on, either Mycroft or someone else.” He explained. 

“Mycroft?” John looked at him confused, having never heard that name before. 

“My older brother, senior by 7 years.” He replied simply. John never imagined him as having siblings, let alone an older one. He wondered what Mycroft had felt hearing that his younger brother was murdered. Did he take it hard or did he behave like Sherlock and act like it didn't bother him. “If it fell to Mycroft he could have chosen two different spots, either painfully close to everyone else -to spite me knowing I hated bumping elbows with people- or someplace so far out of everyone's sight it might as well not even be in this cemetery.” He muttered, pressing his fingertips together as he looked over the field. 

An older man made his way up the rocky gravel path, a smile on his face as he squinted against the sun. “Can I help you two?” He questioned, leaning against a cane as he walked. 

“Yes, are you the keeper?” John questioned, rolling down his window. The older man nodded, his friendly grin stretching as he came to a stop, his hand going up to shield his eyes from the sun. “We're looking for a grave, my friend here's great uncle.” Sherlock shot him a look, not expecting John to come up with such a weak lie, but he went on with it, leaning down to smile at the old man.

“Hi, yes I'm looking for the grave of my uncle Sherlock Holmes. This is my first time in London since I was a little little boy and I thought, why not pop in?” He laughed, smiling. “Mum used to tell me stories about him when I was little, just...thought I'd pay my respects. Would have liked to meet him in person though.” The man looked at him pensively, licking his lips a bit as he stared, then pointed. 

“I knew your uncle. He was one of London's greatest detective's when I was just a little boy.” He pointed, shaking his finger a bit. “You are a spitting image of him. Saw him once. Before he died, tragic.” He licked his lips, his finger trembling. “1927. I was 13 years old. My...my brother was one of 16 boys who were murdered. The...the murderer abducted the boys in...in groups of four. They...they called him in and he stopped the guy from abducting my sister and I. He...he told me that he wouldn't let any other children be taken. The next day, the man was put behind bars...and...and my brothers body was returned to us.” Sherlock stared at him, blinking for a moment before forcing a smile.

“Harvey Akers, right?” The man looked at him confused, then smiled, nodding. “Mum told me about that case. That was the case right before he'd taken a bullet to the lower spine and he got that scare that he'd never walk again.”

“Nothing can scare that man.” Harvey shook his head. “Nothing has ever scared Sherlock Holmes. He knew exactly what to do to fix it, always has. I'll take you to him.” He pulled away from the car, hobbling a bit as he turned around, beginning up the path again. Sherlock hesitated before getting out of the car, making his way around it to follow the old man. 

John stared after the old man uncertainly before getting out, partially jogging to catch up with them as they made their way through the cemetery to the bank by the lake. There was a nice dirt cliff that dropped down, supported by a brick wall that led down to a small beach below. There was a lone tombstone beneath a large tree. A black marble stone that seemed fairly new, and engraved in the front of it were the world _Sherlock Holmes: Worlds Greatest Detective._  

“The stone looks new.” Sherlock noted, looking at it. 

“Mhm, my wife and I, about 30 years ago had it put in.” He admitted. Sherlock looked at him confused, swallowing hard, his eyebrows furrowing. 

“Why? This stone must have cost a lot of money, especially to use granite instead of marble so it will last longer.” The old man nodded, smiling lightly.

“Because he meant a lot to my wife and I. She was 20 years old at the time, 4 years older than me. She was engaged to another man. She was in...in an abusive relationship, at the time I was just a simple boy doing chores to help my mother. After stealing most of her wealth away he...he vanished and kept sending threatening notes to her. She...she hired Sherlock Holmes to find him. There was a fight but he won. Because of him...we...we ended up together. We married and the same year he died...even...even was going to invite him.” He licked his lips, his voice breaking as he looked at the headstone. A tear trickled down his face. “I...tried my hardest...he inspired me to join Scotland Yard, and I...I tried my hardest to find the bastard who did it...who murdered him. In the end, it was Greg Lestrade who found him...killed him.” He sniffled a bit. “Good riddance to the bastard.” 

Sherlock stared at the stone as the man spoke, surprised that he and his wife had been someone he helped in the past. Which so long ago...that would make the man...96? And the way he spoke about his wife and the fact she was 4 years older than him made her...dead. 

“What was your wife’s name?” the detective questioned, not looking at the older man standing beside him. 

“Marlene. Marlene Goodrow.” Sherlock closed his eyes, remembering the woman almost perfectly. She had expressed a faint interest in him, even dabbled in flirtatious behaviour, but he brushed her off not interested. “He was something special to us, even if he was uninterested in talking to us.” Turning he began walking away, leaving John and Sherlock alone. After a few moments, when they were in the clear John looked back. 

“He met you. I'm surprised he didn't see that it was you.” John said, looking at the detective. Sherlock didn't say anything right away, his eyes blank as they remained on the black stone. After a moment, he dropped his gaze to the flowers that were planted in front of the stone. 

“It wouldn't have been possible, whether I was physical proof I was here or not. I died that night in 1930, even if I hadn't I would have died more than ten years ago, given I lived to be a hundred. I never would have known Marlene or Harvey.” he laughed lightly, almost bitterly. “I was never a picture of perfect health given my...avocation.” 

“Avocation?” John looked at him confused as the detective pulled away from the stone and began making his way back to the car. John stalled for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth between the headstone and the ghost as the gap between them grew wider before John turned, briskly attempting to close the gap between them again. 

“My use of tobacco and cocaine.” John froze at the admission, not taking him for someone who would even consider using the drugs let alone actually _using_ them. “It was recreational.” Sherlock admitted. “I injected 7% of cocaine to speed up my mind, give me something to do with the dullness of not having a case got to be too much to bare.” Walking around to the other side of the car he pulled the door open again and climbed, shutting the door firmly behind him. 

Licking his lips, John stared at the car for a long moment, wondering whether he should dislike the ghost for that or not. In the end he settled on the fact that it didn't matter because that was 83 years ago and he was dead. Without much of a word he climbed into the car and shut the door behind him, buckling up. Carefully he pulled out and chose a safer route away from the cemetery -even though it was longer. 

He made his way into town, the change of scenery arousing the ghosts interests as he looked around. He stared at the buildings and the decorations as they drove by them. 

They went to a few different stores, picking up a few pre-made items -food platters for the party- and last minute necessities. He had even bought a fold out Gazebo tent for the yard and a long runway of lights to put along the beach so the yard was adequately lit. It didn't take long before they were back out, ready to head home. Sherlock had begun to get rather excited for everything -he did enjoy social gatherings, only for the fact that he learned so much about people, and after that time gap he'd spent away from society he had a lot to make up for. 

Returning to the car, helping John load the bags into the trunk, he turned in time to come face to face with a young woman, possibly around John's age. She had long, reddish brown hair, pale skin, thin lips, dark eyes and small almost non-existent breasts. She smiled, what little lips she had almost vanishing completely. He was about to open his mouth to say something when John spoke up first. 

“Molly!” Sherlock turned, looking at the doctor, only to swing back around when he walked around the ghost, wrapping his arms around her tightly. She giggled, shyly, hugging back. 

“Hi, John.” She blushed a bit, tucking some of the loose fallen hair behind her ears. 

“How are you doing? It's been a while since I saw you.” He greeted, pulling away. Sherlock noted the genuine happiness on his face when he saw Molly and it made him curious. 

“I'm good, I'm good just...saw you coming back to your car and thought 'oh, why not talk to John'.” She giggled.

“You followed us over here though.” Sherlock spoke up. Both of them turned, looking at him confused as if they had forgotten he even existed. 

“What?” She squeaked. 

“You followed us over.” Sherlock repeated himself. 

“No,” She laughed lightly, shaking her head. 

“Yes,” He turned, looking at a car that was a little way down the parking lot. “That vehicle down there is your car which was parked at the hospital we drove by about an hour ago.” he explained. “You were just leaving the building when you saw us. From there you followed us from one parking lot to another but you didn't leave your car, either because you weren't interested in gauging John in conversation, or you were working up to it and figured that he's shopped at every other store in the plaza, I'd better talk to him now before I miss my chance.” She didn't say anything, swallowing hard after a few moments before laughing nervously.

“I'm, so sorry about that.” John stepped forward, looking at her concerned before shooting Sherlock a look. “This is a friend of mine, he's from-” 

“Rothbury.” Sherlock interrupted. “My name is Hector Hissilks, from Rothbury before I moved to Tibet.”

“Oh, you were living in Tibet?” Molly smiled, looking at him. “How long?” Sherlock paused for just a split second, almost saying 83 years, but he had to catch himself. 

“I moved there when I was a teenager, so about, 14, 15 years.” He lied. 

“I've always wanted to go there.” Molly added, a bit awkwardly before turning to look at John. “Um...is there anything you want me to bring for the party? I...tried calling but I must have your old number.” 

“Oh!” John dug into his pockets, looking around for a pen or paper or at least his phone. “Um...here I'll just give you my number now.” He pulled his phone out, going to his contacts. Nodding she pulled out a small slider phone with a touch screen and went to her contacts, adding his name in. Sherlock felt very much out of the loop -a feeling he didn't like- as they began to exchange numbers. “My number is 117-496-0948.” Carefully she typed it in, then sent him a text message, his phone going off. She smiled, looking up at him. Receiving the text he added her to his own contacts, smiling before closing the phone. “Alright, I have you all added. As for something you can bring? Hmm,” He bit his lip thinking. She stared at him, waiting. “Bring anything you would like to eat or do there. Really, I'm bollocks at throwing parties.” He laughed. 

She nodded, laughing as well as she closed her phone, holding it in her hands a little longer as if expecting someone to text her before putting it in her purse. 

“Alright, so I will be there, and I hope you have a costume, because I know I'll be in mine.” She bounced a bit as she said it.

“I can't wait.” He smiled as well before hugging her. “Come anytime you want, I gave you the directions in the email, right?” She looked at him blankly for a moment, thinking back on the email he'd sent her, then nodded.

“Yes, and I will try not to get lost.” 

“Alright,” He smiled, looking back at Sherlock for a quick moment before turning his attention back to her. “I have to get back, set up a few more things before the party.” 

“Ok, I'll see you then.” Turning she waved, heading back to her car. Sherlock watched as John turned around, heading back to the drivers side as Molly walked away. Backing up he climbed into the car and buckled up, waiting for John to say something as the doctor turned the car on, pulling out of parking lot. Sherlock kept quiet as they drove along, his eyes on John as they drove along. He had a slight smile on his face as they headed back to the house.   
  
"So who was that girl?" He questioned, reading the expression on the doctors face. "Past girlfriend?" He guessed only to encourage John to talk.  
  
"What?" John looked at him shocked them shook his head. "No, no Molly and I worked at the same hospital. After I got my medical discharge from the military and came home I got a job at a hospital over there in London. I was surgery she was Morgue."  
  
"Oh how romantic, you save lives and caught what came through the cracks." Sherlock replied. John had to look at the detectives face to see if be was joking or not; the faint smile on the ghosts lips confirmed he might be.  
  
"I was married to Mary at the time." He insisted. "Molly and I are just friends."  
  
"Miss Hooper wishes more than that John." Sherlock looked out the window as they pulled into the dirt road, heading for the house.  
  
"What do you mean?" John looked at him confused, feeling a bit flushed as he parked the car and turned it off.  
  
"It's obvious John, again you see but you don't observe. She followed you from the hospital to each parking lot we pulled into. She acts erratic when you speak to her-"  
  
"She doesn't act erratic." The doctor defended. Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking from the window to him without saying a word. "Well," John shrugged. "She doesn't"  
  
"John I saw her heart pounding through a sweater and fall jacket. Her pupils were dilated, her lips were dry hence why she kept licking them, she fidgeted the entire time you were talking to her. Really I'm surprised you can cross a busy road without being hit." Pushing the door open he climbed out and came around to the back of the car to get the food out of the trunk. John sat there, his forehead crinkling as he attempted to make sense out of the insult before it sunk in. Pushing the door open he slipped out and looked at the ghost as he pulled six or seven bags of groceries up onto each arm.

“That was a blind insult wasn't it?” He questioned. Sherlock smiled up at him, bouncing his eyebrows sarcastically as he started carrying the things into the house. Sighing John grabbed the last few bags and shut the trunk, following the detective inside. “Food can go on the counter for right now, we'll deal with the decorations.” He instructed, pulling a Halloween table cloth out of the bag. 

“Right.” Sherlock acknowledged, pulling the lights and little decorations out before putting the food in the kitchen. 

Decorations only took a half an hour at most to set up before they made their way outside, setting up the cloth gazebo and fold up table with a stereo system he'd received as a Christmas gift -quite a few years ago- but had never used it because of how loud it was. “I hope we don't get rain tonight.” John said, looking up at the sky after getting the speakers situated, one in the house, one outside so the music could be enjoyed both inside and out -the outside was more for whoever wanted to relax or dance seeing how he knew it wasn't just going to be the people he invited. 

“It shouldn't.” Sherlock replied, brushing some of his hair out of his face as he looked up at the sky as well. “The air would be thicker if it was.” He admitted. John looked at him curiously before something caught his eyes. 

“What's that?” He shielded his eyes from the sun, the water rushing up onto the beach. Sherlock looked at him curiously then to where he was headed as the doctor began moving. 

“Ah,” he moved ahead of him, walking over to a metal grate on the beach, surrounded by a small stone wall. It looked almost like a small burning pit, but the lack of ground in the middle of the circular hole, covered by the grating said other wise. 

“Is...is that a well?” John walked over, leaning down to look inside the hole. There was a shallow hole, slightly blocked by piping, but that wasn't what shocked him. When he looked farther down he saw that there was a bathtub full of stagnant, sand filled water and soot. “What in the bloody...” he knelt down, trying to get a closer look. “What the bloody hell is that? Is that a room?” He looked up at Sherlock, feeling his heart flutter. 

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded, not phased at all about it. When the doctor continued to stare at him, a look of horror and confusion on his face he sighed. “That room is an extension off of the basement, John.” He explained. “When I was alive I needed a room to which I could do my experiments, so I had a concrete tomb built beneath the house. Unfortunately there was no ventilation so I had this little chimney,” he kicked the side a bit. “built to be ventilation. Sadly I didn't build the walls up high enough and the water come high tide would over flow and soak the basement. But instead of building the walls I thought _why not use this water, purify it and instead of relying on paying 10 pounds a month for water service?_ So I built a filter that would filter the salt from the water, clean it relatively, keep it stored for when I needed it and what not. Then plumbing became big and easy and now we don't need it. It still has water in it, though we might need to flush it though, should we ever decide we need to use it.” 

“But why is there a bathtub down there?” John insisted, looking down into the hole. 

“That is the original bathtub that was in the house.” He replied, walking away. John stared at it, feeling an odd, cold vibe from it as the burned, soot marks were explained. He lingered for a few moments before turning and following the detective back to the house. He could think back on that basement later, for now, he had party preparations to complete.

 

Haunted

  

It was about 7 or 8 when guests started showing up -some had candy to hand out to the children before coming over. John greeted them all happily, dressed as a doctor. He smiled as he greeted people, explaining where everything was as they came in, and like always, he was right when he'd figured that more people would show up than what he had invited.

“So, you excited?” Harry questioned, standing by the door with him, dressed in a pirate outfit, a fake beard on her face. Beside her Clara was dressed as a female pirate, her hair curled and wild. They looked great. 

“Excited? For the party you mean?” John questioned, looking at her curiously. 

“No John, for my hysterectomy in the morning. Yes the party.” She laughed, taking a sip of some of the soda that she'd dug into when she arrived. 

“Oh, I think it should be relatively entertaining.” He admitted, smiling, then opened the door, a man with short black hair walked in, followed by Molly. She was dressed up in a gorgeous silk gown, a corset pushing her breasts up. On her face she wore a half mask donned with jewels and beads, her hair curled and piled up onto her head. John stared at her in awe as she came in and smiled. 

“I love the costume. A doctor?” She teased. 

“It...was last minute, it was either doctor or military man and I'd rather not dig those out.” He smiled. “But look at you, you look...” He sputtered a bit, holding his hands out as an indication. She blushed, twirling a bit, the dress flowing about her. “like you're...just about to spill out there.” He finished. She stopped and looked down, her smile fading for a moment, then coming back as she laughed. 

“Yeah it does that. Sorry.” She attempted to push them down a little but he shook his head. 

“No, no it's...quite alright. Quite,” he tried to lean against the wall but missed, almost knocking the lamp over. Harry, Molly and himself all dove for it, catching it so it wouldn't fall. “alright.” He straightened himself up, clearing his throat embarrassed. “I uh...I'll give a tour of the house once everyone gets here. If you'd like you can help yourself to refreshments in the dining room.” He instructed, feeling lecherous. 

“Ok.” She smiled and made her way into the dining room. Sighing, he rubbed his forehead, trying to think about something other than her bosom, bubbling out the top of her corset when the door to the side of him opened, Sherlock stepping out of the office. He was wearing a marvelous outfit, skin tight pants, thick black pants that came up just around the bottom of his ribs, the blouse he wore was frilly, tucked inside the pants but hung over the top, and over it he wore a stylish looking vest and a cravat with leather boots that came halfway up his calves and had about an inch and a half of a heel on them.

John couldn't help but stare as he stood in the doorway, looking fancy -and of course painfully authentic. 

“Wow,” he commented, looking him over, his eyes stopping once he noticed just how tight the pants were, framing every fold, every curve, every dip in his hips and legs as if they were painted on. He was stunned at the fact that his naughty bits couldn't be seen. 

“Don't fall in love now.” Harry taunted, winning a faint smile from the ghost in front of him. 

“Harry, shut up.” John said simply. “You look good.” He complimented. 

“And you look unimaginative.” Sherlock returned, looking him over. “ _Doctor Watson_.” He teased though the title sent a shiver down John's spine. He laughed, rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah and you look like a dick, it was last minute.” He backed up then looked at Harry. “Ah, Harry, this is um...Hector Hissilks, Hector this is my sister Harriet and her wife Clara.” He stepped out of the way so they could be introduced. 

“Pleasure to meet you.” Harry held her hand out. Sherlock hesitated a bit, shaking her hand with a leather gloved hand of his own. 

“Pleasure's all mine Harriet, and Clara.” Clara smiled and shook his hand next. 

“How do you know John?” Harry questioned, looking from the detective to the doctor. “You two uh...you know...” She pointed between them before clicking her tongue.

“No! No no, no oh God no.” John blurted defensively even as Sherlock looked between the two confused.

“What, are we...what?” He questioned, not liking the fact that no one was going to finish the question or fill him in, leaving John to answer for him. John's eyes slipped shut, swallowing hard. He didn't want to say it out loud, but as no one moved forward to elucidate.

“Homosexuals.” John muttered. “Are we...homosexuals.” The ghost gave him an inquisitive glance, then gasped, his head shooting up to look at Harry. 

“No, no we're just...friends.” He confirmed.

“That sounded definite.” She smirked, taking a sip of her drink. “So for now I'll believe that you two are just _friends_.” Grunting John lightly tapped her arm with the back of his hand.

“Go in and make yourself useful and go mingle or something.” He turned his attention back to the door. Harry gave Sherlock a grin, wiggling her eyebrows as she turned, walking towards the dining room. 

“I brought alcohol!” She hollered, lifting her cup in the air. The declaration followed shortly by the hoots and hollers of the other guests. 

“I thought you said that this wasn't going to be an alcoholic party?” Sherlock replied, leaning against the door frame, a faint smile on his face. 

“Yeah well, invite Harry to a baby shower and it turns into a bar, what can you do.” He muttered, not looking back.

“Here you boys go.” Harry returned, a red cup in each hand. Sherlock looked at it curiously but didn't hesitate to take the cup. John looked back at her then grimaced. 

“Harry, not every party has to have people getting smashed at it.” He replied, turning to face her. 

“John, take the damn cup or you'll wear it.” She replied with a smile which betrayed the seriousness of her eyes. He hesitated, reading her expression and weighing whether she really meant it or not. Sighing he shook his head and took the cup. Without another word she turned, heading back to the dining room to continue dishing out drinks. 

“A bit forceful.” Sherlock smiled, looking into his cup. He swirled the orange liquid inside, trying to figure out what it was before bringing it to his lips, taking a moderate mouthful before swallowing. A burn rushed down his throat as the fruity flavor hit him, making him cough. “Bloody,” he winced, his face contorted. John smiled, looking at him as he sipped his own drink. 

“Alcohol virgin too?” He teased. 

“No,” he replied hoarsely, his eyebrows furrowed as he swallowed the mouth full of saliva that had built up. “I was more of one to drink brandy or gin.” He admitted, swirling the mystery drink in his hand again. 

“So why the averse reaction?” John questioned, taking another drink. The detective rolled his eyes, looking at the doctor incredulously before speaking. 

“Being dead for 83 years has nothing to do with it.” He muttered, taking another drink, this time expecting the bite. John raised his eyebrows, remembering. Swallowing his mouthful he exhaled sharply, the burn of the drink oddly welcomed. 

“I forgot.” 

“And how did you forget?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, laughing slightly. Looking up John smiled. 

“It's not important.” Lightly he slapped Sherlock's arm before turning away from the door, heading into the dining room. Sherlock looked after him for a moment before taking a large swig of his drink and following him. 

By the time the rest of the guests had showed up John was through two and a half drinks, sitting at the table. His face was beat red as Harry told stories from when they were younger at previous Halloween parties. Sherlock sat beside him, laughing just as hard as the doctor was. 

“And that was how John got his ass blistered for running off.” She stuck her tongue out at her brother, a gesture which was volleyed right back. 

“And you did too for not telling mom where I'd gone; why is it always my fault?” He laughed. 

“Because you should have stayed by me as you'd promised.” She shot back, pouring herself another drink. 

“So you said you were going to show us the house?” Molly questioned, looking up. Her cheeks were a rosy red from the drinks that Harry peddled to most of the guests. John looked at her confused for a moment, licking his lips, then nodded, remembering he had said that. 

“Well the house is boring, I don't want to damage the spirit of things.” He muttered. 

“Boring?” A man dressed as a cop questioned from the other end of the table. “I heard that this house was haunted.” He bowed his head slightly in a manner that asked _can you believe that?_ John stared at him, his face blank for a moment before forcing himself to laugh. 

“Anderson, that bollocks.” He insisted. He wasn't aware that the dark haired man knew the story behind the house -or at least a touch on the rumors.

“No, no, he's right.” Sherlock sat forward, smiling. John looked at the ghost, his heart racing in his chest, praying that he wouldn't give them the truth. “The house is haunted.” 

“And who are you?” Anderson looked at him questioningly, having not really had the chance to be introduced. 

“My name is Hector Hissilks, I live in Tibet.” Sherlock replied, drinking a little bit of his third alcoholic beverage. 

“And how do you know whether the house is haunted or not? How do you even know John?” Anderson pressed. The ghost felt a rush of annoyance at the mans questions. He wanted nothing more than to reach over and club him as he continued to question him. 

“We met online.” John said quickly. The room broke out in a chorus of _Ooo's_ , all teasing except for Molly who looked from everyone else who was listening to John.

“I lived in Rothbury before I moved to Tibet many years ago. While living here I sort of had...a thing for myths, rumors, stories.” He explained. “I heard the story about Sherlock Holmes, considered one of England's greatest detective's.” 

“So you studied the local legend?” Harry questioned, looking at him. He nodded. 

“Almost religiously. I could tell you almost every detail about his life.” He smiled, looking around the room. “And...his death.” Everyone quieted down, their interests piqued. Turning one of the guests turned off the stereo so that the story could be heard. “Sherlock Holmes was born here, near Bristol. He lived with his mother Violet and his father Vincent Holmes, grew up playing with his older brother Mycroft Holmes.” He looked down at his cup, his smile smug. “He always wanted to be a pirate.” He added, taking a drink, causing the others to laugh lightly. 

“After his father walked out on them, their mother running off to be the model for a french painter, he decided to go to school. That pissed out and he quit not really learning anything he didn't already know. But he had one, remarkable trait.” He looked up at everyone in the room. “He could tell you about your life, just by looking at you. In the blink of an eye he'd know whether you had a nervous condition, based on the length and state of your fingernails, or whether you had an affair on your husband.” He held up his cup, looking at the shallow liquid inside. “He could tell you were in love just by a single glance in your eyes.” His eyes shot back up to the people in the room.

“How is that even possible?” Anderson questioned incredulously, interrupting the story. “What, when people fall in love do their pupils turn into little hearts?” He snorted, laughing. Licking his lips, Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes narrow as a spiteful smile stretched across his face.

“If you _must_ know, _Anderson_ , there are multiple signs you can tell when a person is aroused by another person, racing of the heart beat, deeper breaths, all of their focus ends up on you and you know what the big one is?” He leaned against the table, staring into his eyes. “Dilation of the pupils. Now if you don't mind me getting back to the story, unless you know a better version of it.” He sat back. John couldn't help but smile at the insane level of sass radiating off the detective. When Anderson failed to comment, Sherlock continued. “Anyway, now that I'm no longer being rudely interrupted by someone who gets his jokes from Popsicle sticks.” The group around him laughed as he adjusted himself in his chair. “He decided to put his talent to good use and become a consulting detective. He was hired by wealthy people or just by people with interesting enough cases. Finding kidnapped children, stolen jewelry, murder cases. All in but a fraction of the time it would take for Scotland Yard to solve these cases.

“He devoted his life to these cases, solving 4 or 5 a week even. Because of this he lived a wealthy, comfortable life.” He paused, looking up and around at the people who were watching him waiting for him to continue. He swallowed, thinking about his life as he dug the scar open again and watched as it bled memories. “He didn't have friends. He was too good for that. He had no interest in dealing with _normal_ people, or so he claimed. The only person he could consider a friend was head detective of Scotland Yard, Greg Lestrade. But it wouldn't matter. He lived here, in this house.” He looked around, motioning to the house. “It was Christmas Eve, in 1930. Sherlock Holmes had just solved his 600 th case. He came home and locked the door. He knew he would be summoned in the morning so instead of joining in on the festivities he decided to head to bed.” his voice dropped low and suspenseful as he continued. “But as he got ready for bed, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

“He couldn't shake the cold that crept through his bones, the feeling in the pit of his stomach or the nagging at the back of his mind that he shouldn't go to bed, not yet.” he paused, looking around. “But he ignored it, figuring _What's the worse that could happen? No one in their right mind would walk all the way out here in the middle of nowhere on Christmas Eve._ So into bed he went, tucked beneath his warm blankets, the fireplace running in the room to keep the cold out.” He leaned forward, a small smirk coming to his face. “It was midnight, he was fast asleep when the door to the balcony opened and in crept a man, 185centimeters tall, 16 stones of pure muscle. Grabbing the nearest object he attacked!” He shouted, scaring half of the room.

“Sherlock got hit once, just enough to wake him up as the attacker swung again. Reaching up he grabbed it, pulling it to a stop. They grappled, the spot where he'd been hit upon his shoulder starting to ache already, but he continued fighting. He managed to get the detective to the floor, their hands locked on the fireplace poker used as a weapon. Grabbing a marble urn the man swung, hitting Sherlock in the forehead to stun him, hoping he would drop the poker. When it didn't work, he hit him again, and again, cracking the stone off of his scalp until he fell away, to hurt to move.

“Hauling the detective up he was tied to the bed, his night robes tight tightly around his face to act as a mask. His wrists and ankles bound to the headboard. 'You will die, detective, for what you have done to me.' the man growled as he emptied lamp oil on the floor and on the bottom of the bed across his legs. Reaching back into the fireplace he pulled out a half immersed log and dropped it upon the floor. The room went up in flames. Sherlock panicked, attempting to escape but the injuries he'd taken to his head kept him from moving too much. He was beginning to hemorrhage. 

“The attacker escaped back out through the balcony and stowed away into the night, leaving the detective to be devoured alive slowly. The flames traveled up the bed, burning the flesh from his feet and legs slowly. He screamed in agony as it traveled up, eating through his nude flesh. He prayed to die by smoke inhalation but the robes made sure that wouldn't happen. After 5 or 10 minutes, the robes caught ablaze, burning through his face, his eyes melting in their sockets.” Everyone grimaced at the gory details. “By the time they got to the house it was too late.” Sherlock continued. “The corpse was charred to a crisp which surprisingly was a lot given the fire had somehow managed to die out on its own. Probably the weather. The house was rebuilt, good as new even though some pieces of the original house remain. And they say, that at midnight,” The lights flickered a bit. “On a night much like tonight, you can hear the screams of Sherlock Holmes as he burns.” Suddenly, the lights went out.

Everyone was silent and still as they looked around, not expecting the lights to have gone out. Suddenly behind them in a giant puff of fire on the other side of the room, Sherlock screamed engulfed in the flame, but only for a moment, sending the room into a screaming fit before the lights turned on, the detective laughing hysterically on the other side of the room. “You people,” He laughed, wiping a tear from his eyes as everyone stared at him, Molly with her hands over her face, Harry with her hand over her heart and Anderson with a little urine in his pants -even though he would never admit it. “Lighter fluid and fire, goes up quickly.” He laughed, shaking his head. 

They didn't say anything, even John stared at him horrified, his heart racing, not expecting a scare like that -he just hoped that no one had a weak heart. Rolling his eyes Sherlock stretched his arms out, wiggling his fingers. “I'm a bloody story teller, honestly, if you can't handle a scary story don't bring up the subject.” Half of the room breathed a collective sigh of relief, some of them laughing as he returned to his seat. 

It wasn't long before the room eventually returned to its normal pep. Talking and drinks passed around. Towards midnight the party shifted interest as the stereo pumped out playfully obnoxious tunes to which even John participated in dancing to. Sherlock watched from the chair at the table, clapping in belligerent, drunk bliss as the guests made fools of themselves doing a dance Harry introduced as "the chicken dance".   
  
With a shift of the music, the clock chimed, striking 1. A slow song came on, everyone seeming to migrate towards a dance partner as they held each other. Harry with Clara, a woman named Sally with the dark haired idiot Anderson. But it wasn't until he saw John, holding Molly Hooper tight in his arms, her head on his shoulder -with the help of her stripped shoes and leaning down a bit- that he realized that something was wrong. He swallowed hard, watching as they swayed back and forth, saying something that was inaudible over the music. His heart hurt in a way he'd never felt before. Looking down at the liquid in his cup, he chugged it and placed it on the table.  
  
Pushing himself to his feet he stumbled a bit, sneaking out the side door onto the porch. It had gotten relatively chilly and there were maybe only one or two people outside smoking a cigarette. He ignored the brisk wind on his arms, staring out over the ocean as the tide came up, being pulled by a cosmic leash held by the full moon.  
  
Drunkenly he stepped off the porch, making his way across the sand to the waterline. The air was warmer by the water, and as the wind blew his clothes felt heavy against his skin. He didn't like it; not at all.  
  
Reaching down he unbuttoned his vest, dropping it to the sand behind him, followed by his shirt, leaving him in his high waist pants and shimmering black leather boots, which he then, too, began to strip, leaving his footwear rested on his clothing to prevent any vengeful breezes from scattering the articles of clothing across the beach.  
  
He closed his eyes, letting the moonlight seep into his skin like the frozen hands of time. Stretching his arms out, he took a step, his toes submerging in the warmer-than-air water. He didn't stop, one step after another until he was waist deep. With a gentle wave, the ocean reached up, encasing him in the salty ocean, dragging him under.  
  
He felt at peace as the water slammed around him, rolling him in its chilly, satiny embrace. It was quiet as the dark took him, winters cold hands traveling up his body from the depths of the ocean. His eyes opened, burning like the fires he remembered so well, as if it were yesterday. He saw the moon, dancing above the waves, the only thing keeping shape and size even as the water above him danced. He was content with laying there, the sand on his bottom as the ocean made no more advances to keep him down nor spit him out, pleased with the prize it had pulled down and buried beneath its surface.  
  
It wasn't until a voice, a deep voice, his own, as loud as it was as if he were saying it played in his ear brought him back to reality. "John." His blood surged through his veins. Pushing down, he dug his feet into the sand below him and pushed himself up into a standing position. His hair clung to his face as the air bit bitterly at him, his eyes pinched tightly to keep anymore of the water he'd been generous to invite in underneath the surface out. It was when his lungs kicked water from them did he realize that he'd been under long enough to drown -had he been alive in the first place.  
  
"Isn't it a little cold to be swimming?" Sherlock stopped, his eyes opening. Turning he saw the doctor, shed of his doctors jacket, standing on the beach with a cup in his hand and a smile on his face.  
  
"It's warmer than it looks." The ghost replied after a minute.  
  
"Oh good," John leaned down, putting the cup on the ground. Standing up he began shedding his clothes, dropping his shirt on Sherlock's. "because I've been wanting to skinny dip here since I bought the place." He laughed. Sherlock stared, his eyes focused on the way the moon hit the mans body as he stripped down completely and began making his ascent. "I thought you said it was warm." John shivered, walking out as far as Sherlock was, his breath catching a few times before standing still.  
  
"I said it was warmer than it looks." The ghost corrected, looking up at the moon.  
  
"Is this what you normally do?" John asked, his hands rested on the waters surface. "Come out here and just...stare at the moon?"  
  
"No, I usually come out here and think about your mum." Sherlock replied teasingly, giving John a playful glance. The doctor looked at him seriously, then tilting his head back he gave a quick laugh before pouncing angrily on the ghost, forcing him beneath the water. Sherlock went down quickly, shocked at the sudden change of mood. He struggled beneath the water as strong hands pushed him down, but vanished. Popping back up Sherlock gasped for air, his ears draining the water from them to hear John's playful laughter. "Are you insane?" Sherlock coughed.  
  
"Come on Sherlock, afraid of a little water wrestling?" John grinned, beckoning him over with a wave of his hand, his stance wide as he readied himself for the detective's counter.  
  
"Oh," Sherlock sneered smugly. "You don't want to do this John, you don't want me to embarrass you in front of your guests do you?" John laughed, his arms flexing in anticipation, sending a wave of excitement through the ghosts body as he stared.  
  
"You, embarrass me? You're forgetting I was in the military!" He growled excitedly. Sherlock felt the growl swell up and force through him like a jolt of static electricity, his heart racing.  
  
"You're forgetting, so was I!" He lunged at him, tackling him down into the water. John struggled, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, attempting to catch him in a bear grip but failed as the ghost extended his arms, keeping him from locking his arms around him. Instead, reaching down he grabbed Sherlock's waist, forcing him into the sand below him, their bodies rubbing together like nearly beached tunas running from a fishing net, a jolt of electricity running through John's body as they touched. He pinned Sherlock down against the bottom, straddling him as he brought his head up for air.   
  
He could feel the detective squirm underneath him, their skin rubbing together. John groaned a bit, feeling excited, when suddenly a pair of legs popped up.   
  
Extending his legs, his movement sliding John up to his chest, he sank the pads of his feet into John's shoulders, kicking him forward off of him and up towards the beach. John gasped as his knees dug into the sand. Turning he saw Sherlock get up and began scrambling up to the shore, but he was too late.   
  
Lunging at him, Sherlock tackled him to the ground, the shallow water around them splashing as their bodies hit with a gentle clap. John laughed as he struggled with the detective who was laying on him, fighting to keep his hands from being bound. Finally getting a good sense of movement, John grabbed his wrists, pulling him still. Digging his feet into the sand he shifted their bodies, forcing himself on the detective instead, digging his back into the shallow muddy water.   
  
"Good show." John panted, holding the ghosts wrists to the ground on either side of his head, his knees forcing Sherlock's legs to remain apart. "But uh...seems like I won." He laughed.  
  
"Only because you're short." Sherlock laughed in return, panting as he welcomed his position. "How does it make you feel forcing down an 83 year old ghost, hm?"  
  
"Oh don't even use that excuse." John laughed. After a minute he fell silent, staring into the youthful face below him. He swallowed hard as the moon reflected from Sherlock's eyes like gems. The heat where their bodies touched like fire that tickled each of his nerves. His mind felt fuzzy, no coherent thought coursed through it as he watched the ghosts lips part, his hair flowing like silk in the inch or two of water they laid in.   
  
He let go of Sherlock's hands, bringing his own to ghosts sides. Sherlock looked at him curiously as he brought his arms down. His heart raced as the doctors hands grabbed his waist roughly, caressing his sides with his thumb, pulling his butt down to help close the gap between them.   
  
"John," he whispered, his voice quivering a bit. Leaning forward, John's muscular arms wrapping around his waist, their lips met, crushing each other.   
  
The ghosts eyes slammed shut, their bodies pressed together as he was crushed in John's embrace. He moaned as the doctor shifted, their skin gliding across each other. Although hesitant at first, Sherlock returned the kiss, feeling himself being filled with a searing heat as their breath was exchanged, their tongues gliding against each other. The taste of alcohol filled his mouth without a care because he knew that his too tasted like alcohol. "John." Sherlock panted, cupping the Doctor's face, their lips parting.  
  
"You're gorgeous," John panted in return. "Bloody fucking gorgeous, and I'll tell you what I'm going to do," he whispered. Sherlock fought a smile that tugged at his lips as John kissed him again. "I'm going to pull you on shore,"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Smother your body in kisses," Sherlock gasped, his lips at John's ear as they clung to each other. "And make you scream my name."   
  
"With the guests here?" Sherlock questioned looking up. John froze, hovering over him for a long moment before looking up, grimacing.   
  
"Fuck." He rolled off, crawling up on land. Sherlock looked after him, following. He watched as John plopped down in the sand, shivering a bit as the cold set in. Laying beside him he wrapped his arms around him tight. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock in return, letting the ghost rest his head on his chest, accepting the warmth that flowed through him.   
  
"So what did you think?" Sherlock questioned, looking at the moon, tracing the scar on John's shoulder with his fingertips. "About the party?" John stared at the sky for a long time before smiling.   
  
"Best Halloween in a long time." He looked down at Sherlock, the detective returning it with a gentle chuckle, both feeling a bit awkward but not caring in their inebriated state.  
  
"Happy Halloween, John."  
  
"Happy Halloween, Sherlock." 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the party, Sherlock wakes on the beach and finds that all guests have gone home except for Molly. John has better plans for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one ended so weirdly, and Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays!

**Chapter 10**

Sherlock awoke to the sound of the waves crashing over the shore, sand gritting against his cheek. Groaning he pushed himself up and looked around, the sunlight making his head pound. Reaching up he rubbed his forehead, brushing the sand from his face when he noticed that he was alone. "John?" he questioned, groggy from sleep and the alcohol he consumed the night before.

A set of footprints led up to the bank to where their clothes were, the cup that the doctor had laid down knocked on its side. All of John's clothes were gone and that was when he remembered that when they had passed out, the party was still going.

Pushing himself to his feet he grabbed his clothes and put his shirt and underpants on -just in case the magic of Halloween hadn't warn off yet, though he was sure it had given that it was almost 10am according to the position of the sun.

Walking across the beach he climbed the porch and looked at the vehicles. There was only one other car besides john's, and he knew exactly whose it was. "Ugh," He groaned, his upper lip curling a bit. "Not the person I wanted to see in the morning." Pushing the door open he walked in, stepping over Molly's shoes which were placed inconveniently in the way. He made his way to the kitchen where he turned the water on, making sure to keep it low enough to remain quiet but on enough to be affective. He washed his face and arms when a repetitive thudding reached his ears from upstairs.

Looking up at the ceiling curiously, his forehead crinkled. Shutting the water off he made his way through the dining room, then living room, through the office to the bottom of the stairs. He paused, the thudding a little louder and a little more defined. He hesitated, a voice at the back of his mind telling him not to do it, telling him to just turn and walk away while he had the chance. Against his better judgment, he reached forward and grabbed the doorknob.

He stared at the door for a long moment, his mind having a small war with itself, unsure of whether he should do it or not. Finally, getting sick of the suspense he turned the doorknob and pulled the door open carefully so as not to make noise and stuck his head in. Upstairs, there was a muffled voice, one he couldn't quite make out, unsure if it was John or not. When suddenly Molly's voice cried out, screaming John's name, the thudding becoming faster and louder.

Sherlock's stomach dropped hard enough to hurt his knees, his heart feeling as if it exploded in his chest. He stood there dumbfounded at the bottom of the stairs, his mouth agape as she continued screaming. "Oh God, John yes! Yes!" He pulled his head out, pulling away from the door quickly as he made his way back to the living room. His throat was tight, constricting his airway as he choked. Lifting his hand he brought a knuckle between his teeth, biting hard as he caught himself pacing back and forth.

Pulling to a stop he stared out the window at the ocean, his stomach coiling around itself like a pit of angry snakes. He closed his eyes, letting his mind empty as he attempted to reason with himself.

"Of course he's having sex with her." He said aloud, making sure that no one could hear him as he did, not even John. "Why wouldn't he, he admires her with her thin lips, red hair and...flat ass, tiny breasts and lack of assertion!" He snarled, flinging a chair across the dining hall. A spark of pain ruptured up through his fingertips, traveling up through his arm to his brain. The pain almost brought him to his knees as fatigue set in. He shook his head, shaking it off. "And what do you have?" He continued, sneering spitefully. "Nothing, you dead...piece of..." he stopped, taking a deep breath as the sound of the bedroom door opening upstairs reached his ears. He kept quiet, his eyes narrow as he glared out the window. Without so much as a nod of his head he was dressed in the outfit he normally wore. He turned and watched as Molly and John came downstairs, standing by the front door. She smiled at him with a smile that made Sherlock's arms tense, his vision flashing a red color.

"I'm happy we got to do this." She smiled, wearing one of his button up shirts and a pair of his boxers.

"Me too." He replied, standing in front of her. Cupping her face he kissed her, pulling her close. Sherlock bit his lip, his nose crinkling. With the swish of his wrist he knocked one of John's lamps off of the stand from across the room, making Molly scream and look. John looked at it and sighed, shaking his head. "That's the second lamp." He groaned.

"It just...fell off for no reason." Molly looked at John horrified, her hand clasped over her chest.

"No, it was too close to the edge of the stand, and the cat is probably down there messing with it." he groaned, although in truth, he knew exactly what it was.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She looked at him.

"Don't be." He smiled, kissing her again. "You come over anytime you want." He whispered, his forehead rested against hers. Giggling she wrapped a free arm around him, her other arm holding her balled up Halloween costume and under clothing.

"Even 2 am?" She questioned, rubbing her nose against his. Sherlock swallowed hard, trying with all of his might not to fling the couch at them. He knew that John knew he was there.

"Even 2 am." He grinned, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her deeply, his tongue brushing against hers. The ghost looked away, taking a deep breath through his mouth to get rid of the feeling of his heart attempting to escape through his throat. Laughing gently as she pulled away she reached back, grabbing the doorknob.

"I have to go out and get to work, you know how Jerry is." She frowned playfully. John rolled his eyes, though the smile never left his face.

"God do I." He laughed. "If he gives you a hard time, tell him you were making the luckiest man in the world very happy." He grinned, cupping her face. She stared back into his eyes with infatuation. With one last kiss she turned and opened the door, heading out to her car. John followed her out onto the porch, waving to her as she stuffed her costume into the back seat, then climbed into the drivers seat. "Drive carefully!" he called out to her. Waving back she turned the car on, backing out. He watched her as she turned, then headed down the path and out of sight. After a moment of silence he sighed before turning, heading back inside. "And what did you smash my lamp for?" John questioned, looking into the dining room.

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, his legs crossed, his fingertips touching. He looked tired, dark bags under his eyes, his face looking sallow. John couldn't help but notice how worn out he looked, but more than that, how angry he seemed even though it was hidden well behind a mask of indifference.

"You and Miss Hooper?" Sherlock smirked bitterly, putting both feet on the floor.

"Yep." John admitted with a smile, ignoring the ice of the question.

"So it has gone from 'she doesn't like me' to 'let's have sex'?" He pushed.

"Why, is there a problem with it?" John questioned, leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed.

"Oh no, not at all just a bit confused as to why you left me unconcious on a beach, nude while you ran in here to have sex with someone with about as much sex appeal as your left shoe."

"Don't insult her." John warned him, his smile vanishing.

"Oh?" Sherlock pulled his head away, feigning shock. "I'm sorry, I'll try not to talk so negatively about the woman you betrayed your wives memory with." He smiled sarcastically.

"Stop it." John spat, feeling his blood start to boil. "Don't you dare even think of bringing Mary into this."

"Oh I won't, especially if you didn't. I mean did she even cross your mind as you were stripping that ditsy woman from her badly tailored gown?"

"Back off!" John snapped. Sherlock stared at him, feeling the sudden boom of the doctor's voice hit his ear drums like a bomb. "You know what? It's none of your business who I have sex with!" he snarled, continuing on. "If I want to screw the postman you bet your rotting ass I will screw him until he screams my  _mother's_  name."

"I just think it's bloody ridiculous, John. You can't keep it in your pants for a single night you have to...run off with any available woman?" Sherlock pushed, raising his voice to match John's.

"It's none of your business!"

"If Clara wasn't married to your sister or a lesbian you would have jumped right on her wouldn't you?" Sherlock snarled.

"Yes I would have." John smirked bitterly. "God yes I would have, and you know why? Because it's not up to you. It's not up to you who I have sex with because your time to make choices ended 83 years ago!" He pointed at him. "Just because you died alone and a virgin 83 years ago doesn't mean that I have to abstain! I can stick my bloody dick in whoever I want whenever I want and you can't say shit about it!" He was screaming now. "I am a lonely man, I am alive and I need intimacy and Mary knows that! She knows that more than anything and I'm not going to let some...fucking asshole with giant cheek bones and beady little eyes who died a virgin because he was too much of a pompous asshole to let himself be intimate when he was alive ruin my chances of being happy!"

Sherlock stared at him as the insult hit hard. All of the writhing in his stomach stopped, falling cold as ice. He broke eye contact with the doctor, but it didn't stop John from continuing. "You aren't God's golden key to heaven Sherlock! Stop acting like you are because you're nothing special! You're a dead guy with a vendetta against anyone who can live a better life than you trapped in a shitty house in the middle of nowhere because he was too much of a recluse to tolerate visitors!" he stared at the detective, the fire inside of him still raging hot and white, but his heart ached. He bit his tongue, trying to stop himself, seeing that his words were already causing enough damage as it was, but his brain continued pushing. He needed to say more. He needed to get all of his anger pent up inside of him out. "So what? You had the ability to see details people didn't, good job Mr. Heartless, where did that get you? Tied to a bed and burning to death! If you weren't jonesing so hard to inflate your bloody ego maybe you would have lived a normal fucking life? Maybe someone might be able to stomach you're shitty personality long enough to let you flop around on top of them for a few minutes?"

Sherlock inhaled deep and quickly, his eyes watering as he tried to block out the sting of his words. John could see the pain but for some reason, he couldn't stop. "Maybe that's the reason you can't cross over? Because you're so self absorbed Satan is afraid of letting you into hell for fear the hot gasp of your noxious ass narcissism might blow the fucking roof off of the joint-"

"Enough!" Sherlock stood up, the table behind him flying across the room, his voice breaking. John recoiled, covering his face as shards of the wooden table top flew everywhere. When he uncovered his eyes, the ghost was gone. His heart fluttered, wondering if he was gone gone or if he was making for an attack. After a few minutes when nothing happened he slowly lowered his defenses -but kept himself alert just in case. He had gone too far. Way too far and he was beginning to hate that he did.

What he had said to the detective was harsh, even to say to someone he hated, and his feelings for the ghost didn't come anywhere close to hatred. Taking a deep breath he dragged his hand over his face, looking at the splintered wood of the table. It was completely obliterated with minimum damage to the wall; it only meant that it was the table that took most of the ghosts wrath, and if he could tear apart a large, hard wooden table like wet tissue paper, he could only imagine what he would look like had he turned his fury on him.

"Sherlock?" He called into the house, but there was no answer. It was cold and lifeless. There was no energy that he normally felt when the ghost was wandering around. It felt empty, desolate. Licking his lips he wrung his hands, wanting desperately to take back everything that he said while part of him wanted to just shrug off the matter; after all it was Sherlock who started the entire thing, sinking his nose into business that didn't include him. It was only fair he was bitten back.

But still.

"Sherlock!" He called again; still no answer. He looked at the mess, then at the bundle of clothes that was now covered in shreds of wood and glass from any glassware that had been left on the table at the time of the attack. Leaning down, John picked up the detectives pants from his costume and looked them over. Reaching back he dropped them in a chair and as carefully as he could climbed over the mess to get to the kitchen.

He made his way to the cupboards and pulled a small closet open. Pulling out the broom and dustpan he began sweeping up the remains of the table he'd had in his house before he moved in with Mary. It was a nice table, albeit being old, and he was angry that it was destroyed, but he blamed no one but himself for the turn of events.

After an hour he managed to get two bags full -not to the top because he still needed to be able to carry the bags- he put the broom away and placed both bags on the porch to get them out of the way. Standing on the porch he froze, looking out at the ridge of forest that separated his home from the road that lead to society. The longer he sat in silence the more he realized he was wrong for saying what he had said. Sherlock had been angry about something, but he didn't know what. It couldn't have solely been because he'd woken up and left him laying on the beach naked, could it? Or was it because he had sex with Molly?

Suddenly, as if hit by a tidal wave of realization, he remembered the night before when he was drunk. Their bodies pressed together under falls frozen grip. The heat he'd felt, the need for passion, the need to exert his energy and take his sexual frustration out, choosing the person closest to him. That happened to have been Sherlock.

Bringing a knuckle to his teeth, he bit down gently, his eyes closed as he leaned against the side of the house. Of course Sherlock was angry with him, after what he had done, the awkward moment they shared. Sherlock was a virgin, he had never showed interest in anyone sexually except for that woman Irene Adler, even then he'd chosen not to get intimate with her. And here he was, drunk, Sherlock drunk as well...

"Fff-uck" He dragged his hands down his face. He wasn't gay. He'd never been gay, he never had gay tendencies nor had he even imagined himself having gay tendencies. It was just...something that happened. He didn't even know what he had said to the ghost fully, all he knew was that they had gotten very close, and now Sherlock was hurt.

Sighing he dropped his hands to his sides and looked out over the vast area, the sound of the ocean rushing in and crashing down over the shore. He made Sherlock think he was interested in him in that way, then he turned around and had sex with Molly then turned around and told him that no one wanted to have sex with him because he had a shitty personality. Pushing off the wall he swallowed, looking out over the ocean as it settled into his mind how much of a total jackass he'd been when a thought came to him that froze his blood in his veins.

Sherlock didn't get offended or tell him to get off when John was on him last night and he became angry when he found out that John had sex with Molly. That could only mean...

Sherlock had romantic feelings for John.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being gone for a couple of months, Sherlock is back, and this time John finds out that he isn't the only ghost in the house.

**Chapter 11**

John sat on the couch, the clock ticking over head as he stared at the wall. The wind blew outside, making the house vibrate a bit as a faint breeze of cold rolled in. He dragged his tongue over his lips, listening to the silence and the water before digging his palms into the arms of his chair and pushing himself to his feet.

He made his way over to the window, his eyes staring out over the inch or so of snow that covered the ground. He was still rather amazed at the pure white of it all. He'd never been one to see Bristol get much snow, but here, it seemed to accumulate, and coupled with the nature of things, it was all very beautiful. The house seemed colder than it had before, and he was sure that it wasn't completely due to the weather outside, although there was snow. It was a different kind of cold. A lonely cold that he had experienced for a year after Mary had died. A cold that he had been plagued with until he met Sherlock in the first place, and now it was back.

He sighed, watching his breath collect on the glass in a fog that lingered for more than a few minutes. It wasn't until the rushing of water reached his ears as the ocean came up on the shore, covering the grate that Sherlock had pointed out to him only two months prior. He could hear a faint splashing, his interest perking a bit. That was right, anything that fell down inside of that hole ended up in his basement.

Turning he made his way into the kitchen, listening for any noises that could indicate he was getting closer. Come to think of it, he didn't even know where the basement door was. He hadn't seen anything at all during his trip around the house that he didn't dismiss as being a supply closet. But just to be sure, he went through, opening all of the doors big enough to possibly pass off as a door to a basement. When that proved fruitless, he made his way to the office and sat down. He began thinking in the warmth the surrounding books had to offer.

Sherlock was a detective in his life, one who was working for Scotland Yard, one with an eye for details. His work was important and no doubt, for his eyes alone. So naturally that would mean that the door to the basement was hidden.

Leaning back in the chair he began to ponder where it could possibly have been, when suddenly his seat tipped back, spilling him out onto the floor, hitting his shoulder off of a shelf. The entire shelf rattled, even though it was built right into the wall, but only one of the book shelves did so. He stopped and looked back, his hand rubbing at his injured shoulder gingerly.

Turning around he pushed himself to his knees and examined the shelf closer, moving a few books out of the way. That was when he saw it. A small metal handle. Grabbing it he attempted to slide it over to the side, but with the movement of his pulling, it swung open just a little. "Oh, you have got to be shitting me." John muttered, staring at it as it slid out just an inch. Pushing himself to his feet he grabbed the shelf with a stronger grip and pulled it out.

The heavy wood swung open with a creek, behind it was a set of steep, spiraled stairs and cement walls as they hit the foundation. John stared at it in awe, not being able to shake how absolutely ominous that dark shaft with spiraled metal stairs seemed. Swallowing he took a deep breath and made his way down.

It was dark, no light-switches on the wall. Although it didn't surprise him, it was a hidden room, whether it was completely void of electricity or not was an answer better left to the detective.

It took a good two minutes to reach the bottom where the room opened up into a huge, cement like box. The mustiness of it's long term non-usage was almost nauseating, but the smell of the sea water freshened things up a bit. He looked around, for it being a hole in the ground, it was pretty well lit for some place without windows. The main room was about the length of a living room with cement walls, floors and roof. There were a few irrigation looking grates along the walls, but other than that it was fairly empty, save for the single flood of light coming down through the grate that led to the beach, and beneath it, a bathtub.

John's throat swelled up a bit as he stared at it. It was overflowing, pipes all over the place, weaving in and out of the other rooms. But that wasn't what caused his heart to freeze up like a water balloon in a freezer. Sitting in the tub, pale almost blue skin, hair wet and sticking to his forehead was the very person he had been missing for the past two months. He hesitated, attempting to swallow the lump that formed in his throat before speaking, but the ghost beat him to it.

"Pardon the bookcase, I've always been privy to that particular cliché." His voice was gruff and deep. John couldn't help but wonder just how long Sherlock had been down here, sitting naked in an old...rotting tub. Had he been down here the entire two months? Or was this just a place he'd been spit out of whatever existence he was sucked away to?

"What are you doing down here?" John questioned, feeling the cold come in, some of the water freezing to the pipes, creating icicles.

"Contemplating." The detective replied, another gush of water coming in, pouring a bucket or so of water in on his lap, sending a shiver up his spine.

"Contemplating?" John's forehead crinkled. Something was off with the detective. There was something dark about him, something...simple and ominious.

"You shouldn't be down here." Sherlock replied, sinking deeper into the tub, pulling his arm off of the porcelain siding, his skin stretching before ripping. John winced, looking at it as the blood began to well up on the wound and drip, joining the water that surrounded him. Suddenly a movement caught his attention. John whirled around, looking farther down a long concrete hall. There was a flicker of light, possibly a lamp or something that had been turned on.

"What was that?" John questioned, turning to go see what it was until Sherlock spoke.

"Don't let your curiosity get the best of you John," He sank his arms into the water by his sides before lifting them up, watching his blue fingers shiver and freeze. "Or you'll find yourself joining me really soon." John stopped, looking back. A small voice in the back of his head began telling him not to be an idiot. Telling him to turn his ass around and go right back upstairs, lock the door and think of ways to burn that basement to ashes. Another movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye, running past him as if there was something playing ring-around the rosie and staying forever on the cusp of his peripheral vision.

"Sherlock what the hell is down here with us?" John questioned, his voice shaking, when suddenly the sound of metal hitting the floor echoed through the rooms. He jumped, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest.

"I was thinking..." The ghost began, staring into the water and the sand that surrounded his legs, his body flickering a bit as if threatening to blink out of existence. "about what you said about me passing over." A body came out of nowhere, unseen as it smashed into John's side and skittered away. The doctor gasped, tripping over a wooden box of equipment, almost hitting the floor.

"Sherlock what the hell did you do down here?" John panicked, noting rust like substances on some of the sharper tools.

"What will it take for me to pass over? I mean, I've been wondering, what it was that is keeping me here. What is it I need to achieve for me to pass over as it is apparent that I am nothing but a burden to you." The ghost muttered to himself, his face warping for a moment.

"Sherlock," John squeaked, trying to keep his wits about him as another figure ran past him.

"Not now John, I'm thinking." He pressed his fingertips to his temples, sinking down into the bathtub farther. A hand grabbed the back of the doctor's leg, causing John to whirl around. At his feet was a twisted, mangled corpse, wrapped in black hair, a protruding, broken neck and no legs. Most of it's face was burned, save for that large toothless hole where it's mouth would be. John quickly ripped his leg back, stumbling back towards the tub.

He felt safe in the light as the figures seemed to morph out of the darkness. Some mangled, some more obvious than others who they were and what they were. Some curled up in corners and shivered. One stood facing the wall, pounding his head off the concrete, each withdrawal from it causing a long, gooey strand of blood that splattered as it rammed it's forehead forward again.

"Sherlock, what the hell are they?" John whimpered, staring at them all. It was like he was trapped in a horror movie. Silent Hill had nothing on the shit that was unraveling in front of him. The ghost sighed, looking up at him, his eyes on the back of John's jumper.

"You know the saying 'everyone has their demons'?" He questioned. John turned, looking at him shocked before turning and looking at them all.

"These are all you?"

"Splinters of me." Sherlock corrected him. "6 or more. Some more dangerous than others. Like my own personal collection of 'skeletons in my closet'." He smiled almost proud of them, his eyes dark. "I have ended up in a few dark places. Sometimes I can't take it and I try to kill myself." He stopped, his lips parted before pulling up in a bitter sneer. "Well, I used to before I found that it was a pointless waste of time. Now I just...do it to pass the time." He pushed himself up, stepping out of the tub, his flesh black where it was under the water. John stared at in, his stomach starting to coil in on itself.

"You...kill yourself to pass the time?" John questioned.

"In many ways." He beamed, crossing his frozen arms in front of him. "For instance, look at that lovely bit, desperately smashing his own head in." He pointed. John looked, feeling sick with every crunch, blood gushing from his nose and eyes, running down his chin, neck and chest. "22 years after I died, I became so overwhelmed with boredom, grief and anger, I sat down here and smashed my head off of the wall. It took 3 days for my body to be completely drained of my energy. I crashed, woke up down here." He explained. "I've been to many dark places, had my moments of anger and desperation since I died. It becomes overwhelming, you expel it, it ends up here as a malevolent shard of yourself." He smiled. "Any spirits you hear of that are malevolent. Pushing you, possessing people, killing them in their sleep? Chances are you're now standing in an area where someone was murdered and their grief consumed them and all of those lovely spirits that are trying to kill you are all of their little broken pieces that resulted from that lovely shattering of any hope they once held." John stared at them as he spoke, his heart hurting even more now that he knew the story behind it.

"So...ghosts can die." Sherlock didn't say anything, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked at his spawns that he had been so proud of until now. The realization hurt. That's what he was doing, with every shard, every splinter of his life that he was leaving down here, every twisted representation of himself he disconnected from, he was dying. They stood in silence for a long moment, not saying anything as their eyes ran over, looking at the bodies who wanted to approach John but for some reason couldn't. Finally, it was John who broke the silence, looking at the detective. "Listen, what I said before, the night after the party...I didn't mean any of it." he spoke quietly, jumping when a loud agonized shriek echoed from down the hall.

"No?" Sherlock's forehead crinkled, his lips puckered as he listened to his own screams. "A human being says what they really feel in the midst of anger, so I know you meant it." He turned, looking at the doctor, although he kept his head turned at just an angle to remain averted. "I have been trying...to find a way to cross over. Because you're right." He rubbed his wrinkled, black frozen skin, watching it tear and flake off as he winced in pain.

"No, I'm not right and I didn't mean it." John insisted, looking up into his pale, marble blue eyes. "When I get into arguments like that I don't say what's on my mind, I...dig down for the things that will hurt you the most and I fling them in your face." He admitted, feeling disgusted as he did so. "I was so...riled up about you bringing Mary into it that I just...I didn't want to beat you down with my fists so I did so with words and I felt like an asshole even before you disappeared." he crossed his arms, sitting on the edge of the tub, ignoring the freezing cold water as it soaked in through his pants. Sherlock didn't say anything, recognizing the fact that what he said made sense.

John was clever. He was clever, and he was cunning and he was sassy all wrapped up into a single ball of retired Military physique and decorated with the wrapping paper composed of innocent jumpers. John could be silver tongued at his best of times, painfully sarcastic as his worst and all together, very defensive. It all made perfect sense.

"How much of Halloween do you remember?" Sherlock questioned after a few minutes more of silence. John went a bit rigid, his tongue idly gliding across his bottom lip as he attempted to find a way to respond.

"Before or after you vanished?" He questioned, not expecting Sherlock to actually answer. "Well, I didn't remember much before our argument. After you left I did a little bit of recollection and uh...well..." He cleared his throat, now feeling awkward as he looked at Sherlock's frostbitten skin and remembered how warm it felt beneath him.

"You were intoxicated." Sherlock admitted, as if attempting to defend John to himself. "And I was exhausted, intoxicated and of course, dead. I think it's safe to say our better judgment was impaired." He peeled a big chunk of the flesh off, making John shutter in disgust.

"Would you please not do that?" He grimaced, looking at the taller man next to him. Sherlock looked at him curiously, not really understanding what he was talking about until he looked down at the pussing wound he'd peeled open.

"Sorry." He put his hands down. "How long have I been out?" He questioned, rubbing his hands up and down his arms as the hole began to slowly heal itself. "According to the cold, my guesses are it's winter." John looked at him, ignoring the cold as the wind blew in through the hole, causing his skin to prickle up. "How long?"

"A couple of months." John replied, pushing himself off the edge of the tub, his butt starting to get cold.

"Obviously John. How long?" he tried again.

"A month and a half-" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Give me specifics! What is the date!"

"December 15th!" John spoke quickly, hoping to dodge the sudden hostility of the spirit beside him.

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed, looking at him, shaking his head a bit. "now was that so hard?" John didn't answer right away, not sure if the ghost actually  _wanted_  an answer or not. After a few moments of silence John looked at him. He was curious, having never really wanting to pry into ghosts affairs -nor have it ever really striking his interest- he wondered where it was a ghost actually went when they crashed.

"What is it like?" John asked, figuring it wouldn't kill him to ask. If anything it would make him feel guiltier for having pushed Sherlock over the edge into a state he didn't even understand -even though it was unavoidable and would have happened sooner or later. "To crash? I mean...you really have no idea what happens in the time that passes? What day it is or what went on?" The detective frowned a bit at that questioned, wondering why it was the doctor wanted to know something like that.

Shifting he took a deep breath, his tongue dragging across his chapping lips. He thought back to his moments while away. He didn't remember much, not that that didn't mean that nothing had happened. "It's much like dreaming." Sherlock admitted, rubbing at his skin, the normal color starting to come back to it. "Or rather, sleeping. You just...close your eyes, you're out for however long you're out and you wake up what feels like...a few minutes later."

"So it's really just like sleeping," Another crash echoed down the hall, a scream following it. John's head snapped up, staring off down the hall startled. "They get rather noisy don't they?" He laughed nervously.

"Not usually." Sherlock admitted, standing up straight, his eyes also peering down the hallway. The darkness around his eyes were fading, his body only flickering a little bit, but it wasn't as noticeable as before. "They're trying to get to you." He said, looking back at the doctor. John's eyebrows furrowed, feeling his heart start to race.

"What do you mean they're trying to get to me?" The sound of bare feet on the cement reached his ears, his head shooting up as his eyes made their way down the hall. Even Sherlock looked up, his body turning a bit stiff. A cloud of black smoke billowed from the pathway.

"Make for the stairs, slowly," Sherlock whispered.

"What, why?" John looked at the ghost nervously, his fingers flexing by his sides.

"Remember when I said the murder of the living done in haunted houses is normally caused by malevolent spirits?" he spoke quietly, his eyes darting from one end of the room before heading back to the billow of smoke.

"Um...yes, what of it?" John questioned, not wanting to step out of the safety of the ray of light spilling in from the grate.

"Please use your head John." He spat, carefully sliding into place, standing in between John and the hallway. A flicker of red dancing along the walls. John stared down the hall in horror, trying desperately to figure out what it was the ghost was attempting to say midst the panic in his own mind. "Malevolent spirits are full of hate, animosity, pain and loss. Naturally they lash out to hurt anything they can, most often anything that resembles their murderer if they had been murdered." He explained when John made no attempt to answer.

"Wait," John stopped, grabbing his arm, spinning him around to look at him. "you're telling me I'm standing in a basement full of a hundred versions of you who want to  _kill_  me?" He questioned incredulously. Sherlock was quiet for a moment before nodding.

"Yes, basically." He said with a quick nod of his head. "Not, that it's personal, you're just down here with a pulse and a heartbeat that they despise is all, it would happen to anyone." He explained. John didn't say anything, his jaw tight as his lips pursed, his eyes glued to Sherlock's. His mouth opened for a second as if he were going to say something before closing again, a smile pulling at his lips.

"Nope," Turning he stepped out of the light. He made his way briskly across the room, stepping over a few hands that reached for him from the floor.

"John?" Sherlock looked after him confused.

"Nope, nope, nope, nope." He walked past the version smashing his head off the wall and made his way for the stairs. A loud scream stopped him in his tracks. Turning he looked down the hall where he saw the source of the smoke and flickering red light. A charred, flaming corpse, flaming chunks of flesh falling from various parts of his body walked clumsily but quickly down the hall, flickering. It stopped for a moment, it's burning eye sockets wide as it opened it's mouth, screaming, it's arms stretching out for him.

John felt his heart stop dead in his chest, a couple hands grabbing the back of his jumper. Hysterically, he chuckled and reached down, ripping his jumper off, throwing it at the ghosts grabbing him. "Fuck this, fuck this whole house!" John turned and made a dash upstairs. Sherlock blinked confused and concerned. Rushing forward he watched as he ran.

"John what about your jumper?" He questioned, pulling it from the ghost beside him.

"Keep it!" He screamed. "It was ugly anyway!" Reaching the top of the stairs John slammed the bookcase shut and turned, grabbing the desk, shoving it against the shelf as if that would stop them from coming up. Once finished he pulled away panting, his heart racing as if he'd just run a marathon in a bullet storm. Leaning down, he rested his hands on his knees, gasping for air -less for being winded, more for being terrified.

"John," Sherlock's voice sounded behind him. Panicking the doctor grabbed a book and whirled around, whipping it at the sound of the voice with deadly precision. It took nearly throwing himself to his knees to dodge it, his arms up. John stared at him, panting, his muscles tense. The ghost slowly stood up, his eyes wide, startled but relatively more calm than the doctor.

"Can they get up here?" John questioned, speaking quickly before the ghost could say anything.

"What?" Sherlock's forehead crinkled, wondering why he'd chosen that question over all.

"Can they get up here? Do I have to burn the house down?" He panted, running his fingers through his hair, his button up shirt slightly transparent as it pressed against his flesh.

"No." Sherlock replied truthfully. "Not unless I were to leave the house." He admitted.

"Leave? What kind of leave?" John's eyebrows furrowing, hating the thought of Sherlock being able to leave and those things getting out.

"I mean," He shrugged, rolling his head a bit as his eyes skimmed the ceiling. "If I were to cross over, or I were to leave via flesh vessel-"

"Flesh vessel?" John looked at him curiously now. He'd never heard that term, and he'd never expected a term so unsophisticated to leave the detective's lips.

"Sorry,  _Possessee._ " He corrected himself, hoping John would understand it that way.

"You can possess people?" John looked at him shocked. From the way the detective had explained his life as a ghost he'd made it sound like he was stuck in the house as a solid, yet not living entity for all of eternity.

"Of course," Sherlock grimaced as if disgusted at the fact that John had even asked that. "I'm a ghost." He added. "But it's not...easy." he admitted. "There are a few different rules. Like you have to choose a person with a compatible soul to yours. If not you could very well fry both of you. You also have to make sure that the person believes in ghosts. Ignorance is a strong barrier." He explained. "Possessing people also takes up a tremendous amount of energy so if you're going to possess someone, you'd better make sure it's for something important. Oh, and my favorite, you have to be willing to share your thoughts and memories with that person and you have to accept their thoughts and memories as yours." He smiled almost bitterly.

"Have you...you know," John shifted, standing up straight, looking back from the bookshelf to the ghost, making sure the spirits downstairs weren't trying to make their way upstairs. Sherlock caught the glances and rolled his eyes.

"Come on." He turned and made his way to the living room. John followed him gladly. Slipping out of the office he froze, seeing the ghost in his usually donned outfit. He supposed it was more comfortable than sitting around naked and frostbitten. John made his way over to the couch, looking at the ghost as he stood in the middle of the room, running his fingers through his drying hair.

"Have you ever possessed someone?" John questioned, his eyebrows furrowing as he watched the ghosts pale and slightly frostbitten fingers run through his damp, half frozen silky black locks. He couldn't help but stare as the curls wrapped around his fingers before sliding softly between their grip. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, his hair pulled back and out of his face, exposing a dent in his forehead where he had been hit by the marble vase. It was a gruesome looking wound, but definitely not what he had died of.

"I have a few times." Sherlock admitted, sitting on the couch, his legs crossed.

"What for?" John's head tilted to the side a bit, his hands idly rubbing his arms as they rested crossed in front of his stomach. The detective didn't answer right away, his eyes glued to the almost exhausted features of the doctor. Licking his lips quickly he inhaled a sharp breath and held it before answering.

"Sometimes using tricks don't work when you're trying to scare someone out of a house. So instead you possess a person and relay the message through them. It's simple enough." John looked down, trying to imagine what a person would seem like being possessed by Sherlock. "They are left unharmed if you choose someone who is compatible enough with you. If not, they can end up a vegetable and you could end up malevolent."

"And they're aware that they're being possessed?" John looked at him concerned. He wasn't sure how he would be able to respond to being taken over by someone else; but if it had been Sherlock, perhaps it would be tolerable.

"Of course. They can feel me enter, they can feel me leave, the only thing they can't do is stop me." He looked down, his fingers rubbing a few of the folds in this pants as he spoke.

"Can you leave the property in the body of someone else?" John asked, licking his lips. Sherlock didn't reply right away, his eyes on the floor as he thought about his answer. Looking up, he shrugged his shoulders, his eyes sliding closed, his eyebrows raising.

"I don't know, I never tried." Suddenly, John's cellphone rang, the spirit looking over at it. John grunted before pushing himself to his feet. Walking over he grabbed it and turned it on, answering.

"Hello?" He was silent for a long moment before biting his lip. "Alright...yeah, I'll be there...thank you." Pulling his phone away from his head he hung up and stuffed it into his pocket. He made his way for the door, grabbing his coat.

"John?" Sherlock looked after him concerned, noting the sudden change of expression, bits of worry on the doctors face.

"Harry's in the hospital." John replied, not looking at him, slipping his coat up and over his shoulders, pulling it into place. Sherlock's expression twisted, his jaw tight as he looked at the doctor. "She's become sick, the doctors assume it's because of the cancer." He explained before looking back at the detective. "What is worse? Being stuck here for eternity, or passing on?" Sherlock didn't respond right away, knowing what John was thinking.

"Being stuck here." He replied. "Harry will be fine, right now, she needs your support and guidance." He didn't believe it himself, but he knew that it was what John needed to hear, even if he didn't believe it either. John looked at him, licking his lips. Nodding his head he turned and grabbed the door, pulling it open.

"I'll be back tonight." He called back, stepping out onto the porch.

"Drive carefully." Sherlock called after him. Pulling the door shut, Sherlock was left alone yet again, sitting in the cold house. All he could do was hope that Harry was going to be alright, and John.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comforts John in multiple ways including keeping him warm in the midst of the cold season, then gives John the offer of helping him get back into the Consulting world. Though hesitantly John accepts the ghosts offer and even allows himself to be possessed; they even get their first customer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas and New Years! Thank you so much for sticking with me while I take forever to upload these chapters between this fanfic and my SuperLock fic. If you're interested check it out, it's called "A Little More or a Little Less Hope"!

 

**Chapter 12**

 

 

John came home, the house dark and cold. He slumped in through the doorway, dropping his coat to the floor, kicking his shoes off haphazardly. He pushed the door open to the office and made his way upstairs, his head hanging. Sherlock watched as he passed unnoticed, noting the look of sadness and exhaustion. He didn't say anything as John pushed his bedroom door open. Walking over he plopped down on his bed, the cat meowing as he walked in, lifting his head from a cat bed John had bought him after Sherlock had vanished.

"How is she?" Sherlock stepped out from the shadows, sitting on the bed behind him as the doctor cradled his head.

"She's going in for surgery, the doctors found legions, tumors all along her left lung." He spoke, his hands cupped in front of his face. He was silent, his eyes the only thing glistening in the moonlight the hit his back. Sherlock knew he had more to say. He could tell by the way John's lips twitched and his jaw flexed as if he were chewing on the words to form them into shape, swallowing the ones he didn't want to use. After a few moments, he dropped his hands, turning only to see the ghost sitting directly behind him, leaning on one arm so he could offer that supportive presence without overstepping his boundaries. "She doesn't want to do it," John whispered, keeping his eyes down. Sherlock looked at him, his own eyes tracing the movements of the doctors eyes, his eyebrows furrowing.

"She doesn't want to do it? What do you mean?" He questioned, not quite understanding.

"She just...she doesn't want to do it. She's tired of this whole thing. She just...she's given up." He dragged his hands down his face, sighing deeply into his palms. "She doesn't want to got through with the surgery, or the rest of the radiation or the chemotherapy. She just..." He frowned. "You can't blame her though." He added finally after a few minutes. Sherlock looked at him quizzically, his forehead crinkled as his lips parted.

"Actually, being someone who has witnessed both life and death, yes, I can in fact blame her and I believe I have enough weight to leave an opinion." He snorted. John looked up at him, shocked at how hostile the ghost seemed. "John, she says she's given up, but the human spirit, they never give up. You see, there's always this little flicker of hope in the back of your mind that some...miracle will happen and it always rips you people back from whatever state you're in." He explained, looking at John seriously. John looked at him, feeling his own eyebrows furrow in curiosity, not understanding fully what he was saying.

"So you're saying...that God will save her?" He cocked an eyebrow. Sherlock rolled his eyes, his eyelids fluttering as they did.

"Fuck God John, let's be realistic shall we? Anyone who relies solely on the help of that asshole deserves the death that they believe is inevitable."

"Yeesh," John winced averting his eyes. "You sound like you have a vendetta against the big man." Sherlock glared at him, his mouth hanging open as he stared through narrow eyes.

"I'm a little pissed off at our arrangement given I was burned alive and trapped in a house I didn't enjoy being stuck to in the first place, yes." He replied before shifting. "God abandoned us years ago. He made us, he worked most of the kinks out of our programming and left us to stumble through this life with our prayers falling on deaf ears. The thing with humans and their belief in God is the fact that when things go wrong we pull our hands off the reigns and pray some divine power will take control for us. In times like what your sister are experiencing, she hasn't given up, she's pulled her hands off of the steering wheel and is hoping she'll get better on her own. Which isn't going to happen, not with this." He explained.

"You see, you normal people are full of hope. You're full of...prayer, why? Because you lack the ability to see and understand the fundamentals of life. When you get a disease, you're not smart enough to understand everything that is going on with you and your chances of getting better," John's face twisted, his jaw tightening as he stared unamused into the detectives eyes. "that is what makes you normal people so fascinating though. You hit a hopeless dead end and you don't understand that it's the end. You don't understand that there's nothing you can do to stop it, so what do you do? You start whipping things together. Two doctors stands over a cancer patient and realizes that he's going to die. The smarter one knows there's nothing you can do and is prepared to let the patient die, but the other says he can't let him die, and takes radiation, a substance that  _causes_  cancer, and beams the cells with such an intense heat it kills the cancerous cells.

"Or a woman stands over her sick child who is crying from a swollen hurt throat. Desperately, she starts whipping things together. Tea and Honey, the heat to break up mucus and the honey to soothe. It's normal people like you who are so willing to do trial and error and just...start smashing things together like cavemen with rocks and you come up with all of these things. All of these...discoveries and inventions. Genius's like...Picasso or Shakespeare or Edgar Allen Po or Benjamin Franklin are dubbed genius's for slapping the obvious together. Shakespeare and Edgar slapped together pretty phrases and created a deep meaning, Picasso splashed paint on a canvas and Benjamin Franklin licked one too many iron poles in the middle of a lightning storm. But you people, a terrified family member found a treatment for a terrible disease that is fatal. Health nuts found liquefying a ton of vegetables everyday can cure most ailments and yet you rave about how miraculous Charles Dickens is for utilizing everyday words in the form of a story about a holiday hard ass visited by ghosts because he's a dick while you people are finding a way to rid of acne almost instantly with a safety pin and an Advil Liquigel tablet." John stared at him, as he continued, not quite sure if he should take what the ghost was saying as an insult or not. After a minute he licked his lips, his eyebrows raising in appraisal.

"You're really good at pep talks, did you know that? I'm sure the military would kill for someone with your way of boosting morale."

"Let's not get sidetracked, John." Sherlock muttered, watching as the Doctor slumped a bit, his face twisting as if he'd been stumped.

"You noticed."

"I notice more about you than you know," Sherlock admitted. "All I'm trying to say, John, is that your sister is pissing away her life, the one thing she can't have a second chance at because she's secretly hoping everything will turn out better in the end by means of some...miracle. And it won't, she is going to die because she doesn't want to carry herself and make sure she lives." John swallowed, his forehead crinkling as he listened. He knew that Sherlock was right, but he didn't even know what to do.

"And how am I supposed to make her see this?" He looked up. "How am I supposed to tell her that she needs to step it up and help herself? 'Hey Harry, the ghost of Sherlock Holmes that lives in my house told me to tell you that death sucks and you should pull your head out of your ass and do something about it!'" The ghost's eyes rolled before landing on the doctor, giving him an incredulous glare.

"How about telling her that it's almost Thanksgiving, just a lovely exhale away from the time your wife died just a year ago?" Sherlock offered. John's teasing expression vanished, his heart jumping up to his throat as he realized that he was right. The doctor looked away, his jaw tense as he swallowed hard. Everything seemed to pile up on each other as he got older. Sickness, death, anniversaries, birthdays, holidays. "All you need to do is stimulate that little bit of light, that little bit of hope. Do it anyway you need to, insults, guilt, break down and cry if you need to. She may hate you for a bit, but in the end she'll be alive and that's all that matters." He replied pulling away. John stared at the door. He wanted to get up now and go, to drive up to the hospital, to beg her not to give up and tell her that she was all he had left. But he couldn't, not at that moment.

Sighing he reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt. Sliding it off his shoulders he let it hit the floor, followed by his pants. "So what is it you've decided?" Sherlock questioned, staring out the balcony wall over the moonlit water.

"I'll go up tomorrow." John grumbled, shivering a bit. Heading to the foot of the bed he leaned down to turn on the fireplace gas but stopped when Sherlock's body appeared out of nowhere, blocking him. "Jesus!" He pulled back, staring at the ghost frightened.

"Don't turn the fireplace on." Sherlock replied, his skin looking even more pale than normal.

"It's cold in here," John whined a bit, but catching the slight tick of fear in the detectives eyes he knew why. Biting his lip he looked at the fireplace then nodded in understanding, turning for the bed again. "Coldest day of the year and you want me to sleep without any heat." He grunted.

"I can keep you warm." Sherlock responded, turning to shut and lock the fireplace glass doors, double checking to make sure the gas was off.

"Um...no," John smiled awkwardly. "I'll pass."

"But you will be cold." Sherlock turned, looking at him curiously.

"Yeah, I know." Grabbing the blankets he pulled them down and climbed in, pulling them up over his shoulders. His blankets were heavy, but he was still chilly from his traveling back from the hospital. He didn't say anything, the room falling silent for a few minutes. After a moment John looked down to see if Sherlock was still hovering at the end of his bed or not. When no sign of the ghost could be seen he lowered his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. Suddenly, the bed shifted behind him, causing him to roll a bit. He didn't mind it really, Sherlock always chose to lay with him while he slept -for some ungodly reason- but when the covers went up and a warm body slipped into place behind him, soft cloth on his back, sending a cold chill up his spine, he panicked. "What the hell are you doing?" He questioned, his head whipping around.

"Keeping you warm," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, pulling the blankets up and under his arm. "it's the least I could do for not letting you use the fireplace. Although in my defense, running a fireplace while sleeping is absolutely idiotic."

"Says the man who went to bed with a fireplace on." John hissed, his personal space encroached on.

"Exactly, learn from others mistakes." Sherlock pushed John down into the bed, rolling his eyes a bit. "Of course he would have just bludgeoned me to death with the marble urn anyway so, whatever. Would you relax?"

"Sherlock, this isn't something two men should be doing." John insisted, trying to ignore the feeling of Sherlock's body fitting against the back of him like a couple of lego's put together. "Let me rephrase that, this isn't something  _we_ should be doing."

"Why is that?" Sherlock questioned, getting comfortable, his arm slipping underneath the pillow. John remained rigid, not wanting to admit that the contact was actually comfortable on his back.

"Because, incase anyone cares, I'm not gay." Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing irritatedly.

"John," He pushed himself up, looking at the doctor. "I'm dead. I am a ghost, an ectoplasmic representation of a guy who died 81 years ago, on top of that I have no sexual desire to have sex with anyone; you, Molly, Clara, Anderson, no one. This, this is nothing, I feel nothing for you. There is no...sexual desire. To me? It's like sleeping with the cat, unless you think I'm trying to pork the cat when I share a bed with her." John looked at him shocked, his upper lip curling in disgust as he imagined Sherlock trying to have sex with the cat.

"No," He licked his lips unsavoringly. He didn't say anything for a long moment, his eyes gliding up and down the ghosts body as it caught the light of the moon pouring in through the window. He thought it over, remembering when Sherlock admitted that he had no desire for sex, which was why he had died a virgin, but it wasn't Sherlock he feared.

John watched as his hair blew lightly from the non-existent, supernatural breeze, the moon light dusting his soft flesh. His eyes seemed almost white in the glowing light from the winter moonlight and stars. If it hadn't been for the length of his face and thickness of his eyebrows, he would seem very feminine -as far as male standards went. His narrow waist, the way he sat, propped up on one arm, his full lips. No, it wasn't Sherlock he feared, it was his own attraction to the ghost. "Well, I guess it doesn't matter I'm not going to be able to stop you anyway so," John rolled back over, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders, wrapping them tightly around his neck. Sherlock looked at him confused, his eyes narrowing before cocking an eyebrow.

"If you really don't want me to then I won't, I just...didn't think it would be such a big deal."

"It's not a big deal, do what you want I don't care." John insisted not looking at him.

"It sounds like it's a big deal to you, like I'm some...otter coming to bust your clam open and devour you whole." He chuckled. John rolled over, staring at him silently, his mouth hanging open a bit. Sherlock returned the look before groaning. "John I'm not an otter coming to bust your clam open and devour you."

"I'm aware of that Sherlock, it was the...metaphor you used." He replied in a huff.

"Wouldn't that be a simile?" Sherlock pondered it, his eyebrows raising.

"What?"

"Wouldn't that be a simile? After all I'm being compared to an otter busting open a clam-"

"Whatever the hell it is, it was just...a bit baffling." John interrupted.

"And why is that?" The ghost chuckled, finding the turn of conversation to be rather entertaining.

"It's just...you look like an otter, and that's what you do, you...crack things, like cases and stuff like-"

"Oh bloody- fuck you." Sherlock laid down, but the smile on his face proved he found it comical.

"Not as an insult you transparent prick, as in...like...otters are adorable creatures with adorable tendencies, like their need to sleep next to another otter and hold their hand so they don't drift apart,"

"So I'm a bloody otter?" He looked at John inquisitively, fighting the smile on his face.

"You are an otter. The biggest man otter I have ever met."

"What if I told you I had a shellfish allergy?" John froze looking at him shocked.

"Really?" His expression of shock turned to one of intrigue.

"No not really, but if I had, I would have been horribly offended," Sherlock paused, "even more so than you calling me an otter in the first place." The doctor's eyes rolled in his head as he smiled. Rolling back over he got himself comfortable. Slipping back under the blankets Sherlock moved in closer, using his own warmth to warm up John. "I was thinking...when you were gone about what we had been talking about earlier." He spoke up after a moment or two of silence. "I think...it's about time we find something exciting for you to do." The doctor's forehead crinkled as he listened to Sherlock. Curiously he rolled over, facing the detective.

"Like what?" He cocked an eyebrow.

"Well," The ghosts eyes dropped down, averting themselves from John's as he worded his sentence carefully. "when I was alive I was a consulting detective. Basically what happened was I was contacted by people who wanted whatever case solved but didn't rely on Scotland Yard. I was paid after I got the job done." He explained. John licked his lips, wondering if that was what Sherlock was trying to propose or not.

"You want me to be a consulting detective?" He questioned incredulously.

"Obviously not, but with you there you have a more extensive knowledge about medicine and injuries than I do. Not incredibly larger than mine though, just a bit." he stopped before sighing, irritatedly. "I'll stop beating around the bush, John, I'm going insane being stuck in this house. I've seen what the world has to offer and there are so many cases going on right now that aren't being solved and it's angering me that I'm stuck here. Besides, your money isn't going to last forever and this is a quick and easy way to get money."

"I was just going to put an application in at the hospital," John muttered, not liking the offer, but the more he thought on it, the more his mind began to wonder what it was like. He'd always pretended he was a detective when he was a child, and he'd always wanted to be one as well, and now he had the chance to do so.

"Please John, standing around watching all of those people die, that's  _thrilling_." The ghost rolled his eyes, turning his head.

"I'm not a detective Sherlock." John insisted, ignoring the disrespect he had for a serious occupation.

"But I am." Sherlock smiled, looking back at him with an almost kiddish glee in his eyes. John didn't say anything, tossing it around in his mind. He didn't want to say yes, but he didn't want to say no either. Licking his lips he rolled over, staring at the ceiling, his eyebrows furrowing. His fingertips drummed on his thigh as he thought about the entire deal.

"So...I let you possess me-"

"Only partially. I give you what you need to perform these tasks, you get to control your thoughts and motor skills unless you really need me to take over." Sherlock assured him.

"I wouldn't be able to take any of the credit for myself, because, to be quite honest it wouldn't be me doing this." John insisted.

"No, but you would be helping to make the world a better place by getting me out there in the world." The doctor looked at the dark haired man laying next to him, his jaw tight as he looked into his eyes. "There are cases out there John, they need to be solved. If not for the money or the excitement, then for the sole purpose of putting these people's minds to peace." He spoke quietly, his voice barely a whisper as he looked into the doctor's eyes. John couldn't help but stare back, the detectives words making it feel like he had an obligation to help these people; he did, after all, he was one of the only people who could get Sherlock out into the world to do his job.

"What did you decide to do it for?" John questioned after a few moments of silence, enjoying the warmth that collected under the blankets as their knees touched. Sherlock rested his head on the pillow, looking up at the ceiling.

"As I'd said on Halloween, I always wanted to be a pirate," Sherlock chuckled lightly as he looked down. "I guess, it was some...childish need to say _I found buried treasure_  or  _I can save damsels in distress_  or some...complete bollocks like that." He admitted. "It started when I was a child. At my local school, more prestigious than most common schools, there was a boy by the name of Carl Powers. He was an arrogant, egomaniac bully,"

"Oh, sounds like a dick, couldn't have been too popular with the ladies." John commented.

"That an he was 11 years old," John winced, not expecting that twist. "Yeah, but don't worry he deserved it." Sherlock added nonchalantly. "He had drowned mysteriously. I was the only one who thought it seemed odd."

"How did he die?" John questioned. "I mean...what...made you think it was odd?" He rephrased, not wanting to incite any backlash for his stupid seeming question when the detective had already said  _drowned mysteriously_.

"He jumped in for a competition, cramped up, died. Muscles went stiff, just...died. Carl Powers was my first case, I didn't know how he died nor who killed him, but it was one case that prompted me to pursue criminology." He admitted. "For a while I studied. Medicine, psychology, all of that was rather...limited given our limited knowledge. Chemistry, things like that. And then World War I hit and I was drafted. Well," His face twisted as he looked up as if chewing on the words. "I say drafted, my father signed Mycroft and I up for the war and gave us a swift kick on the ass."

"I'd been curious about your military career," John admitted. "How exactly did that turn out?" Sherlock looked at him curiously, wondering why anyone would want to know about that, but when he remembered that the doctor had done his time in the military as well he understood. It was just one war story from a beaten up old soldier to another.

"Well, I was 16 at the time." He began, figuring that it wouldn't hurt to tell John about it. "Although it was illegal to enlist at that age, my father has some sway given our financial situation," He paused, thinking about it for a moment. "To be honest I don't know how that worked out. Anyway, I was shipped over seas with my brother Mycroft. I'll admit, I was terrified," He laughed lightly. "I was with a bunch of soldiers from Devon. I was placed under orders of a kind captain by the name of Captain James Nicholls. He was young, good looking, kind. We were members of the...flying column under him and Major Jamie Stewart. Bit of a hard ass but also decent guy. Basically we were to rush a German camp, and over all were fairly successful until they brought out heavy guns...machine guns...and um..." He fidgeted, licking his lips. "They um...blew our group to shit, to put it lightly. Shot my brother and I right off our horses. Got his horse, got my horse, we hit the ground, ended up trampled on, ended up unconscious. We woke up surrounded by corpses and Captain Nicholls dead."

"That's horrible." John admitted. He'd admit in a heartbeat how horrible it was, the feeling of rushing in and getting shot, but at least he'd had a fighting chance. They had relatively the same weapons on both sides. To go up against machine guns on the back of a horse...

"Needless to say, we got back, we were shipped to another area. That was right around the rumors began to start about me being homosexual for sneaking off to Mycroft's quarters in the middle of the night to sleep with him. One day I was getting my belongings ready for a trek from one strategic location along the German front when I got a bullet through the leg. Lucky for me, it went clean through. I was sent home, same day Mycroft punched a higher up in the face, ended up dishonorably discharged. We went home on the same ship. Got home, battled with a fever induced infection. Somewhere in that delirium I thought it would be a good idea to become a detective.

"So after surviving I started. Started small, a few tiny cases no one gave a toss about; things such as stolen jewelry or vandalism. Something that couldn't be worth Scotland Yards time. Solved the cases, started getting my name out there. It was when Greg-er...DI Inspector Greg Lestrade couldn't solve an important case that I showed up and gave him some hints. Comes to find out his case had a tie in with one of the cases I did. Upon solving his case for him, he asked me who I was and I told him of my consulting practices.

"Generally he brushed me off at first stating there was no such thing. When he hit a string of cases he couldn't solve, he reluctantly called me in. I became one of his regulars when he found out even though I let him take the credit for most cases. I got the money, I got the excitement, he got the fame." He smirked. "So to answer your question on what I had decided to turn to this profession for, the answer is: to prove to the world I was more than just a cynical, socially constipated freak from a broken home, medically discharged from the war for getting shot through the thigh and being able to tell what a person had for breakfast at what time of the day followed by what events in the order they happened." He answered truthfully. John frowned, having never really known that Sherlock had been referred to as all of that.

He had to admit, at times he hated the cynical behaviourisms of the detective. He hated how haughty he acted, or how frigid yet hot headed he seemed all at once. There were times he hated how much of an asshole Sherlock was all together, but he'd never imagined that people thought he was cynical, or a freak. Let alone spoke about it or expressed it openly enough to make Sherlock aware that that was how people felt about him.

"I think your gifts are amazing." He replied as the silence began making things heavy. Sherlock laughed, looking down, shaking his head a bit. "I'm serious. You do things no other human being can do. You've been dead for...81 years, and yet I leave my laptop with you for a night and you figure out that it was older than 5 years, bought in another country and given to me as a gift. That's not even the most amazing thing you've done. And all of that you've done was in a tiny house you've been in for years." The ghost looked up, his eyes connecting with the doctors as his blood rushed a bit to his cheeks, feeling warmer than usual. "I can only imagine what you can do out there, where there's actually things to see."

"So what is your answer to my proposal?" Sherlock questioned, cocking an eyebrow slightly. John hesitated, thinking everything over. It all sounded exciting, and he felt obligated to help, even if he wasn't. But he was just a discharged army doctor. Biting his lip he held his breath, staring out at the stars over Sherlock's head. Licking his lips he inhaled deeply, before sighing.

"Sure, why the hell not. I'll try a couple of cases, if I like it we can continue, if not? Then we stop, deal?" He looked back down at the ghost. The well hidden ecstatic expression that came over the ghosts face made John feel proud as the ghost smiled brightly.

"Deal."

 

 

 

**Haunted**

 

John woke up in the morning, feeling comfortable and warm -more comfortable than he had for a long while- until he realized why. He was resting in a pair of warm arms, a soft face pressed against his neck. His heart stopped as his eyes widened in shock. He was officially the little spoon of a homosexual seeming pairing. Quickly -but carefully- he pulled himself from the embrace of the -surprisingly- sleeping ghost and grabbed his robes, putting them on. He made for the bathroom, shutting the door.

Heading to the mirror he looked at himself in the reflection, his face red from the rushing blood. He had been comfortable, no tossing and turning, no dreams, no heartache. He had been almost in paradise in the ghosts arms. Warm and safe. Shaking his head he slapped his hands over his face, hiding the shameful blush from his own eyes.

"Get a hold of yourself, John." He muttered. "You're acting like a bloody school girl." Pulling his hands away he looked up, grimacing at the redness in his cheeks. Groaning he turned the cold water on, splashing his face with it. After soaking his face thoroughly he shut the water off and dried it on the fluffy towel he had hanging up.

He made his way out, heading downstairs to make himself breakfast and check his email. Getting to the kitchen he froze, the ghost sitting at the table with a tired look on his face.

"Good morning." He looked up at the doctor from his distant gaze out the window.

"Good...morning?" John cocked an eyebrow.

"You sounded sure of yourself." he muttered.

"Just...wasn't expecting to see you with bed head." John admitted as he went into the kitchen, putting a pot of coffee on. "You look more out of it than a sloth." He smirked, his back to the ghost. Sherlock let off a deep groan.

"Why do you compare me to animals, and never any attractive ones?" He complained in the lazy way a child did when it was half asleep but didn't want to go to bed.

"You don't think sloth's are attractive?" John looked back, leaning against the counter.

"No," Sherlock replied simply as if it should have been obvious. "Really John? You have their...beady eyes and...fat pig snout noses and those...disgusting, grabby fingers." He grimaced as he described them.

"What about their fur and their teddy bear faces?" John opted as the pot finished peddling out the coffee. He waited for a moment before pouring himself a cup and sitting at the table.

"You mean their coarse hay like hair and their contorted old man heads?" His upper lip curled, his eyes fluttering a bit. "Let's talk about something less nauseating shall we?" John rolled his eyes, blowing on his coffee, but there was a smile hidden behind his cup.

"So what's on the agenda for today?" John questioned, testing the temperature with his lip, recoiling when he learned it was still too hot to drink.

"Instead of jumping into cases straight away, we should first see if you and I are even compatible on a possession level." Sherlock replied. "If we're not then...well...this whole thing is impossible." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. John grimaced, not sure if he was having second thoughts about it or not. "How many people have you possessed exactly?" John questioned, letting the heat from his coffee mug warm his hands.

"6 or 7; we should be good." The detective admitted excitedly, a smirk coming to his lips.

"And um...how many of them were...incompatible?" John pressed.

"2 of the 7. Before you question whether I did any permanent damage, the answer is no. I pulled out the moment I felt resistance. I can tell when no is a no and I'm not going to force myself in you." He looked back out the window. John couldn't help but snicker at the comment as he drank his coffee. Catching the look Sherlock looked at him inquisitively, his eyes narrowing as he cocked his head to the side. "What's that smirk for?" John laughed, trying not to spill his coffee on himself as he looked at the ghost.

"You're not going to force yourself in me. I appreciate that." He chuckled, dragging his tongue across his upper lip, his mouth an inch from the rim of his coffee mug. It took Sherlock a moment to understand why the doctor thought that was funny; when it hit he groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Get your head out of the gutter, John, I implore you." He stood and made his way past him, giving John a playful crack against the back of his head as he walked past him.

"You won't force it in me but you'll beat me? Come on now, either go all the way or none at all." John turned watching him.

"Rape jokes at 8 in the morning John? That's tasteful." Sherlock replied sarcastically.

"So is your bed head. I hope you're not planning on opening any doors like that." John grinned. Turning, a large goofy, sarcastic smile on the ghosts face he reached back and grabbed the front door, opening it. John laughed, shaking his head. "Alright alright," he put his empty mug down and stood up "how do ghosts get bed head anyway?" He questioned.

"Besides the obvious fact I was sleeping beside you all night?" Sherlock questioned, shutting the door again. Crossing his arms he leaned against it, looking at the doctor. "Ghost cow. Shimmies in on a ghost rope and licks your hair when you sleep."

"Alright forget I asked." John muttered adjusting his robes. "Let me pee first and we can practice your body snatching."

"Possession John, possession." He watched as the doctor made his way to the bathroom and waited until he returned.

"Should I put clothes on for this?" John questioned, rubbing his hands together, joining Sherlock's side. "I'd hate to end up Marilyn Monroeing it with no knickers on."

"I'm possessing you John, not giving you all the powers of hell," Sherlock have him a look that practically screamed _you're not that important_.

"Ok so what do I do?" He looked at the detective, getting ready to say no if something awkward happened. Without a word Sherlock turned and motioned for him to sit on the couch. Without much hesitation John did so, holding his robes closed.

"Relax," Sherlock said gently. "Allow peace, and tranquility to course through your mind." He instructed.

"Ah, so my walls are down and you can get in." John closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the couch.

"No, it's so I'm not bombarded with your random smarmy bullshit the moment I'm in." Sherlock replied casually. Shifting to get comfortable, John licked his lips, resting his hands on his lap.

"Fuck you." He replied, allowing himself to relax completely.

"That's it John, release your rigid curse words. Let them go, be as a deflated balloon." John laughed, flipping the ghost off. He licked his lips again, letting his hands fall to his side. He waited, wondering what it would feel like and how he would know. Suddenly the cushions shifted, the inside of the detectives thighs rubbed against the outside of John's. His eyes snapped open, the ghost sitting on his lap.

"What the hell are you doing?" His hands snapped out, grabbing the detectives hips. He froze, feeling uncomfortably hot as he held the ghosts waist in his hands.

"John," Sherlock looked down at him, lifting his hips as John's hands squeezed a bit. He would never admit out loud that he loved it, the large rough hands on his waist. "I'm not going to poof into a demonic black cloud. I have to get on you, establish a connection and then enter you." He explained, sitting down completely, hoping that would make him feel less awkward. When that failed to work due to John's hands still being on his waist and their crotches touching, Sherlock focused on the task at hand.

John however, was trapped at a cross roads between wanting to shove the detective off and drive to Molly's to shag her, or forcing the cocky spirit down and tearing into him like a piece of steak.

He swallowed, feeling sad for a moment, wondering when it was his thoughts of Sherlock started turning sexual. He wasn't gay. He knew that. He didn't feel sexually attracted to any man no matter how sexy or nice he was. David Tenant did nothing for him, nor did Tom Hiddleston, but here he was in all of his glory, a man who died 81 years ago. His body encased in old cotton, his black curls shimmering in the sun, his high cheeks bones and long neck. He wasn't beautiful by societies standards, nor was he Prince Charming. But here he was, the way his hips rolled as he tried to get comfortable, the solid body beneath his fancy clothes, the fact he was so innocent as far as sex went...

"Ok ok," John blurted, closing his eyes, pulling his hands off of Sherlock. He could feel himself starting to get turned on and he didn't want that, not when Sherlock was soon going to be occupying his body. He shifted, trying to clear his mind again. After a moment, his mind completely blank, John felt a pressure. It was cold but became warm. He squirmed, keeping his eyes closed. There was pain for a moment, his breath hitching as it coursed through his body, but in a matter of seconds all of the pain throbbed and turned to pleasure. He could feel himself being entered, his body feeling like it was being pushed.

The pleasure washed over him, starting from the head, to neck and shoulders, chest, stomach. He bit his lip, his mind blank. His back arched, his toes curling as the pleasure traveled down his hips and legs. Reaching down he tried his hardest not to grab himself as the blood pulsed through his member. And just like that, it was gone, leaving the doctor panting a bit. Opening his eyes he looked around, Sherlock no where to be seen.

"Feel good John?" Sherlock's voice chimed, almost smugly. He felt like he was stuffed like a turkey then hugged.

"Son of a bitch," John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Look what we have here," Sherlock mused, using one of John's hands to drag up his fully erect, throbbing member. "Exciting?" John groaned and pulled his hand off, even though he wanted to just start tugging away.

"Fuck off." He muttered laying down.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock questioned. "You don't have to answer it, I already know you feel full and horny. You're confused and lost and how the hell do you think with your mind like this?" Suddenly his mind was blank, causing John's eyes to snap open.

"Wh-what did you do?" John whimpered.

"I made you pick an emotion you were feeling the most and pushed the rest away. You're welcome." He sat up, looking around the room in confusion but he felt...satisfied with it. "God I feel like I'm sitting in the middle of a crater surrounded by my dead friends...or is that a memory...why do you keep your thoughts and memories floating about so casually?" John didn't answer, not until certain things started vanishing from his mind.

"Hey hey hey!" He growled, smashing a palm to his forehead. "What are you doing!"

"I'm getting rid of the memories you don't need and the thoughts you don't need, it's impossible to find anything important in this landfill you call a brain. No wonder it takes you an hour to find the remote."

"Stop getting rid of things I need those!" John insisted.

"Really, so this Asian woman having intercourse with a black man is something you need in the same file as your plans to make chicken linguine which sounds disgusting to you but you're still planning on making it?" John didn't answer right away, his jaw tight as he swallowed hard before inhaling.

"Yes." But his answer was uncertain. Sherlock was silent, then both things vanished.

"Gone. And you're craving chicken breast and kale with white sauce."

"That was it!" John smiled. "How the hell did you find that out?"

"My organization, your feelings of craving and what each food tastes like to you it was obvious. Well, I say obvious and it's really complex for you." John grimaced, starting to regret ever doing this. He laid down, glad that at least his erection was gone. "You know, judging by your memories up here, John, you don't get erections often, yet in the time you'd spent with me, you've had quite a few."

"It's fear, I have this...odd reaction to fear." John admitted. "Why are you mucking about in my noggin? I don't recall giving you permission to."

"But you did, when you said I could possess you." The ghost replied. "Besides, I'm not mucking about on purpose, just trying to get the feel for your mind so I can navigate properly; stand up please." John groaned and pulled himself up before pushing himself to his feet. "Good,"

"Am I going to get to play in your head as well?" John questioned, itching his head.

"Granted I'm not playing; why would you want to?"

"It's only fair. You get to see my thoughts and I don't get to see yours?" Sherlock sighed.

"I highly doubt you could handle the way I think, John." Sherlock replied, trying to keep the irritation from his voice.

"You said the same thing about your penis and yet the only thing 'unmanageable' about it was the fact you were uncircumcised." John countered.

"Fine," the ghost huffed. "just, let me get used to your motor skills. You're heavier than I would have thought." The doctor frowned, his lips pursing.

"Thanks for calling me fat."

"I didn't mean it like that. You're stockier, more muscular than the others. More solid, it's difficult to get a good grip." John's eyebrows furrowed. He shifted, feeling kind of proud about the comment. He hadn't been really going to all extents like he used to and working out, and over the past few months he couldn't help but notice that he'd begun to get a little flabby what with his staying in the house and watching television instead of going to work like he had when Mary was alive. Strutting around a hospital was his workout and it was a great one. "Don't read too much into it John, I've only possessed a gay man, 4 women and 2 children so you're the heaviest one I've taken the wheel behind so far." John frowned, all good feelings gone.

"Why can't you ever compliment people. No wonder you lived alone, little  _Miss Bust Your Ass and Break Your Heart_." He muttered.

"Your hair doesn't look completely horrible." Sherlock replied seriously after a moment, flexing John's fingers. John sighed.

"Don't hurt yourself."

"Alright, I'm taking control." The ghost warned. John's mind went from clarity and normality to feeling a bit hazy as if he were on drugs. His back straightened as his body moved on its own. He felt like he was half asleep and drunk, nothing fully registering. He made his way across the living room, his strides long and graceful. He spun, one hand on his stomach, holding his robes closed. "Good and solid, the height might effect my usual mobility but its something I can work out." John's lips moved, his voice was deep and different, but still notably John's. Grimacing the doctor reached up, rubbing his throat.

"Yeah I can't hit that octave normally." He muttered.

"Sorry," Sherlock replied before looking around. "Your eyesight is good, but a bit blurry in comparison to mine. We'll change that when we synchronize a little more."

"Synchronize?" John cocked an eyebrow, relaxing, letting Sherlock pace. "We will be able to separate after this right?"

"Of course John." Sherlock replied, bending over. He tested John's flexibility and stood up, groaning. "You're not pliable are you. But your legs are built thick and powerful, you're arms are the same. You're a tank; more offense then tactic though its not necessary a bad thing."

"You make it sound like you're going to use me for infiltration." John replied, feeling his arms and legs flex.

"Sometimes it calls for it. Climbing, running, ducking into small crevices to escape someone attempting to kill you."

"What?" John froze. "You didn't tell me I could possibly die!"

"John...really?" Sherlock sounded unamused. "John I was caught by a guy who escaped Scotland Yard and burned alive. I fought off being hit with a fireplace poker from a dead sleep and survived being smashed in the face with a marble urn 3 times. Yes this job takes durability and is indeed dangerous. Which is why I'm trying to get the hang of all of your faculties and will need you to do the same for me."

"Why do I need to do the same for you? You don't have a body to control." John questioned, licking his lips.

"No but I need you to be able to think around my thinking. If we're in danger I need you to be able to process fight or flight while I'm processing the details. It will a bit difficult, like putting two left sides of the brain into a skull. Both analytical and alert, there will be a bit of a scuffle for dominance I'm sure, but your instincts will come first. You feel threatened, run. You feel like something bad will happen, ignore my protests and run. I won't take control of your body unless imperative. Your survival is more important than a case." He explained. John crossed his arms, listening as he spoke. He couldn't help but feel that it was because Sherlock cared for him when he knew that it was only because Sherlock needed John as a vessel.

"How often will I be in danger?" He questioned, not wanting to be trapped in another war zone.

"Not often. Most of the time you'll be running  _after_  the suspect, not away. But better safe than sorry. Now sit down and I'll hand the controls over to you." The ghost instructed. Nodding John turned and sat on the couch once more. He stared at the wall waiting, wondering when he'd know when suddenly his vision sharpened, everything around him coming in clear as a high definition television. There was muttering in the back of his mind as he looked at things. Immediately he felt overwhelmed.

"Holy shit,"

_Voice exasperated, tired, overwhelmed, gravely but attractive, confusion._  The voice whispered, but seconds later it was gone, nothing of what what's said remained in his head.

"Is this...what is that?" John questioned, his eyebrows furrowing.

"You normal people see but you don't observe. You look at an object for what it is and not what it's made of and what has impacted it to leave it in this state." Sherlock explained. "When a person speaks, you hear what they say but nothing much past words and overall vocalizations. With me I hear emotion, physical state, energy levels, adrenaline etc. You're overwhelmed by this, you're energy levels are dropping, you're confused, you want this to be over; all of this is expected so none of it is saved and stored away. If you were in pain unexpectedly, I would take note and examine you for bruises, irritations to the body, check your facial expressions and body language for indication. What kind of wound you have or where it is located. If something serious I would tend to that first. If a stubbed toe the concern would fade and analyzation of your voice and what not would be tossed just as it had been before."

"So you break down what you see and hear into description, take what you need to know and scrap the rest?" John questioned, looking around.

"Yes. Also I keep a vivid image of things I've seen in places I've been. When something comes up my mind searches through similar images and compares them. If I've been there before or have seen it before then that makes my job easier."

"It's rather...spick and span up here." John commented. "Like a computer."

"It makes things easier access. I need to revisit a memory, I don't have to sit there for an hour and try to recall." He agreed.

"You're not feeling very much right now though. It's...kind of hollow." John's forehead crinkled.

"Ah, I try to keep my emotions in check as well. Let them flurry and they get in the way. I barge into a murder angry, I overlook something or I contaminate the crime scene with my clumsiness. Although excitement is good. It gives you enough adrenaline to stimulate your mind and clarity to take in more. Too much excitement you could overlook something or contaminate a scene; just like with anger." John pursed his lips, dragging his tongue across them only to hear the voice in his head whisper.

_Eyes express sympathy, dragging tongue across lips; nervous tick and subconscious habit._ The only thing that remained as was stored was the bit about his licking his lips being a nervous tick.

"But you're not feeling much now." John pressed.

"What is there to feel? Keep neutral, when not bored."

"I don't know, happiness? Tired? Curiosity?" John felt a little bit of curiosity as he spoke and a little bit of intrigue, but it was very little. That was when he noticed that that wasn't all. He felt irritation and excitement, but it was such a little of everything it was underwhelming. "I want to try something." He stood up, walking out to the kitchen. He felt the ghosts curiosity increase as he did. Grabbing his laptop he placed it on the table and opened it.

"What are you doing." But John didn't answer. He went to google and typed in 'kittens'. Sherlock remained silent, his mind just as quiet as himself being almost as if he'd left until he clicked on a picture of two kittens. Immediately as the image got larger his mind started analyzing.

_Kittens, one tabby one Maine coon, not of the same litter one one month older based on size and maturity and growth; legs longer, stronger, eyes more focused: blind. Color of eyes, blue; tabby he will turn gold, Maine coon will remain. Tabby has gland disorder; runny eyes possible sign of infection. Place in front of ghastly Christmas tree, bulbs distributed unevenly, no bulbs on back. Tinsel on tree; not the house that owns the cats. Lack of cat hair on everything including mat the kittens are placed on; confirming not the house the cats live in. Most likely studio._

"Wow, a simple 'that's cute' impossible for you?" John smirked.

"Putting a sick and blind animal baby in a house they don't live in to flash bright lights in their face before watching them choke to death on tinsel? What's cute about that?" Sherlock questioned in defense.

"I don't know, maybe that they're babies and in little sweaters?" John opted, looking at the picture.

"You would." Sherlock muttered.

"Ok next test." He went back to the search bar and thought for a moment before typing in the name of a porn site.

"Why didn't you just check your bookmarks, John? Pretending to not know what this site is-"

"Shut up." John scrolled through the page and clicked on a video. One of his favorite girls in it. He watched it, expecting Sherlock to get uncomfortable. The moment the video started Sherlock sighed.

"Can we skip the opening? It's embarrassingly unrealistic." John's eyebrows raised before finding the end of the intro.

"You sure? You'll miss her name-"

"It's Felicity and John. Because you're the creepy one who likes watching pornos with actors with your name in them."

"I don't go looking for them Sherlock, I like Felicity because she's gorgeous." John defended.

"And she squeals 'John'." The ghost mocked.

"Yeah, alright." John skipped ahead. He watched, having seen it quiet a few times. Sherlock started off unamused, not a thought running through his mind until it started doing close ups.

_Her e_ _yebrows are lopsided. More make up on left eye to cover up lazy eye. Fake lashes coming off. Pale pink lip-gloss. Bleaches facial hair. Fake breasts. Discoloration of the nipples and inflammation...breast cancer or other irritants. She should get that checked out. Hair only four inches long, rest of the nine inches are fake. Stretch marks and size of vagina; possibility of pregnancy in the past. No sign of having weighed too much due to lack of stretch marks on her arms or legs; bulimic for 7 years, enamel ware on her teeth suggests contact with regular stomach fluids, no over brushing though._ _Male: 40's, two children judging by ware on his face, married due to indent on his finger from wedding ring. Athletes foot judging by thickness of his toenails. Possibly construction worker when not doing porn or some other occupation that exposes your feet to long exposure to water. Military; another option. Doesn't wear socks with shoes. Scoliosis; curvature at the top if the spine. Each thrust painful. Probably doing this for the money for surgery. Military or policeman; bullet wound through torso. Light scar. Barely visible-_  the video stopped.

"Two minutes. It took you two minutes to ruin my favorite porn actress for me." John said upset.

"Don't choose your favorite porn actress for me to analyze." Sherlock retorted. "Here let me choose one." He took over, the haziness John felt before returning but not as bad as before. John watched curiously as Sherlock scrolled through. He clicked one with a fairly attractive actress and two or three other guys and pushed play. Already John was regretting it.

The doctor sat through the entire thing, his forehead crinkled, feeling quite turned on but frightened at the roughness that was occurring. But he noticed something. The analytical voice was quiet, only occasionally going:  _what the hell...oh...oh god...oh god what? How?_  At the end John and Sherlock both groaned in disgust, looking away from the laptop and closing out of the page. John covered his eyes, muttering.

"Of course it'd end in a prolapse. Jesus..." Sherlock didn't say anything, an occasional grunt leaving his lips. "Are you ok?"

"They continued having sex with her and her intestines were falling out that was horrendous."

"You're the one that chose the video," John declared defensively. "you're the one who clicked it."

"I didn't know what would happen, it said  _surprise_  in the description so I thought it might be something that didn't involve her intestines falling out. Like I don't know, finding out the main guy was her father or something." John didn't reply right away, imagining what would have happened if one found out that it would have been her father. "Family reunion?"

"That's sick Sherlock." John groaned.

"But imagine the look on her face as it happened. Priceless."

"You're sadistic, did you know that?" The doctor shifted, deleting that page from his history so as never to come across that video again.

"Homicide detective. I was a homicide detective John and I loved my job. If I was sentimental in any way then I would spend all of my time crying over the corpses instead of finding clues." He defended. "Besides, it would be funny to see it happen. Teaches her right for not checking the genetic line before hopping on oaken pogo stick." He laughed. John rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide the grin that pulled at his lips. He laughed, shaking his head.

"You're a dick." He replied finally before going to his homepage. "So how are we going to do this whole...detective thing?" He questioned. "I doubt Scotland Yard is going to want me tagging in on their cases and I doubt anyone with any real issues are going to want us poking around without experience." John said, flexing his fingers.

"Of course. There are always issues in Bristol that Scotland Yard doesn't have time to deal with. Thievery, vandalism, the works." Sherlock admitted. "Start with something small: break ins, stolen jewelry, mugging, rape."

"Rape is small?" John cocked an eyebrow as he typed in  _vandalism near Bristol_  bringing him to a newspaper site.

"Compared to murder and serial killings? Yes." Sherlock replied. John skimmed through the paper, reading titles aloud.

"'Woman's house broken into', 'man assaults woman and goes into hiding',"

"Oooo, I love those." John dragged the link to his bookmark bar and continued scrolling.

"Women getting beaten and her attacker going into hiding?" He cocked an eyebrow.

"Oh yes. That way we can find him, take him into Scotland Yard. If they can't find him that means they're looking. If they're looking that means we get more recognition when we find him and the sooner we get your name out there for better jobs." Sherlock replied excitedly. "Lets start a queue" John nodded and got the information of the woman down. Scrolling through he picked up a few more smaller cases and saved those. Turning to his phone book he searched the name of the woman who was assaulted and phoned her, waiting to get an answer.

It took a few rings before she picked up the phone. "Hello?" She questioned.

"Hi, is this Marlene Samson?" John questioned, resting his elbow against the table.

"Yes, who is this? This is a cellphone number...it's...you're not with Scotland Yard are you?"

_Paranoia, fear, attack happened a week ago, still fresh, possibly contacted by assaulter via cellphone._

"No, my name is John Watson, I'm calling about your attack-"

"I don't want to do an interview." She interrupted.

_Wants to keeps it quiet, still being harassed a possibility._

"No I don't want to do an interview on you," he assure her.

"Good John, tell her what you do." Sherlock instructed.

"I'm a detective, consulting detective, I'm interested in your case." He said, pinching the corners of his mouth together as he waited for her reaction. "I would like to set up a possible meeting to discuss what happened and see if there was anyway I could help." He added when she didn't say anything.

"I don't have the money for a private detective." She said finally, her voice breaking.

"No charge." Sherlock replied. John looked shocked, wondering if it was because he felt sorry for her, or if because he wanted the case so bad he didn't care about getting paid. None-the-less he forwarded the message.

"No charge." He replied.

"What?" She sounded confused.

"No charge. I just want to help." She was silent. The intensity of the situation thickened for both Sherlock and John as they waited confirmation. Suddenly she spoke after a few minutes of silence.

"Tomorrow at 3. Can you come then?" She questioned. John smiled.

"Of course. I will see you tomorrow at 3 sharp. Have a good night Marlene, sleep well." John smiled writing it down.

"Thank you, you too." And with that she hung up.

"Ugh this," Sherlock growled in excitement, a rush of adrenaline coursing through John's body as his muscles jumped with the need to run. John smiled brightly, feeling all of the excitement the ghost felt. "This is brilliant. 82 years dead and finally I get to get back into the frey! Watch out Bristol! John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are on the loose!"

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock head out for their case. In attempt to locate their clients attacker -her abusive boyfriend Casey- they end up running into him anyway. Unfortunately it takes a turn for the worst.

**Chapter 13**

  
  
John woke up at about noon, his arms around the ghost that slept beside him. He groaned and rolled out of bed, trudging for the bathroom to shower and get ready. He'd had a bit of a rough time separating from Sherlock the night before. Not too much the possession giving him a hard time. More or less they'd gotten comfortable being together and it was just a bit painful separating. It wasn't until John started getting too tired to do much past pass out on the couch that Sherlock pulled the plug on the possession, claiming they were "riding his life force a bit too hard". After splitting up John felt as if he were about to piss his pants and collapse from emptiness -all side effects he was afraid wouldn't go away.  
  
Stripping from his boxers he slipped into the shower and turned it on. The warm water was welcome, even though he had been pleasantly comfortable the entire night. It wasn't until he began thinking about Harry and her sickness that made his comfort vanish. And even further than that, the plumbing to make him hurry the hell up and get out in case one of those...malevolent ghosts in his basement decided to hitch a ride up the drains to feast on his...whatever they wanted.  
  
Getting out he got dried off and got dressed into a warm jumper -knowing he'd need it if he was to wander around- and made his way downstairs. Sherlock was sitting at the table, looking just about dead as dead could get, his eyes puffy, his hair all over the place. If his salivary glands worked he was almost positive he'd be drooling -unless they did work.  
  
"Wow, you look like hell." John commented.  
  
"I was warm." He groaned like a zombie. "Then you left." John stared at him, his lips pushed together tight to try and fight back a smile that he was losing to as he nodded his head as a sign he understood.  
  
"You dead really are useless without the living aren't you?" John teased the in to get himself coffee.  
  
"Table," the ghost groaned. Stopping, John turned around to find that there was already a cup of coffee there for him. "theoretically speaking...yes." Sherlock muttered, watching as John sat down.  
  
"I'd imagine you'd be bouncing off the walls," John replied, a smile on his face as he tested the liquid with his upper lip carefully. When it proved not to be too hot for him he took a drink. "Or through them." He added putting the cup down.  
  
"I just woke up." He grunted.  
  
"That's another thing. I didn't think you needed sleep let alone _could_." John looked at him curiously.  
  
"Didn't I already answer this once?" Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, genuinely curious. John shrugged.  
  
"I can't recall."  
  
"Ah, well," Sherlock shifted leaning against the table. "Ghosts don't need sleep. They can stay awake all they want, wasting their energy until they crash, or they can sleep which is like...miniature crash sessions where you don't vanish and you are partially aware of everything going on around you. Like when you plug your little phone thingy in to charge it when not in use. Only the world is my socket." He smiled bitterly.  
  
"So you sleep to stave off crashing. That's good." John agreed before looking at the clock. "1 o'clock." He commented, drinking down the rest of his coffee. "It'll take about an hour for us to get there or more and I don't want to be late. Not if she's expecting trouble from him." He patted his pockets, looking around. "Car keys...right, in my coat still." He turned and made his way to the door. Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and followed. As John grabbed his coat he felt pressure, then a bit of pain course through his shoulders and down his back. This was quickly replaced with pleasure, making the pressure in the doctor's head increase. He groaned, biting his lip as the feeling of being full and tightly embraced filled him again. "Warning next time?" He groaned, staring disappointed at his erection.  
  
"Here I come." The ghost replied sarcastically, sounding much more awake now.  
  
"I mean before body snatching me." John muttered. Pulling his cost off of the rack he slipped it on and pulled the front door open, heading out and down the porch steps. "I'm going to be able to drive with you, right?" He paused, standing in the remnants of the snow that they had gotten -and probably the last they'd see for the rest of the year too.  
  
"I should be fine with you." Sherlock admitted. "I have a nice life force to keep me grounded."  
  
"I meant meant physically. You're not going to panic and make me jerk the wheel?" He dug his hand into his pocket, digging out a few receipts before pulling out his keys and unlocking his car with the remote.  
  
"No, I'll go into hibernation if you desire." Sherlock offered almost sarcastically. The doctors lips puckered, his eyes sliding closed as he shook his head.  
  
"Nope, we're good." He replied walking to the drivers side. Grabbing the handle he pulled the door open but stopped. "Sherlock?"  
  
"Sorry, just..." He paused for a moment, sounding as if he were attempting to do something. Suddenly a figure appeared beside him. John turned startled to see it was the ghost. "There," the spirit smiled. "Now you have someone to point out everything." He walked around to the other side of the car and climbed in without much more to say to John. The doctor stared at where the ghost had climbed into the car through the closed door curiously, his mouth hanging open.  
  
"Wait," he leaned down, sliding in behind the steering wheel, turning the car on to get the heater running -it was a bitter day and he didn't feel like having to sit in that poor woman's house with a runny nose. "Are you...are you still possessing me?" He looked at him confused, eyebrows furrowed. Sherlock looked up at him, something was different although John couldn't quite place it.  
  
"Yes." Sherlock replied simply. John didn't say anything, just staring at the ghost. Sherlock also didn't say anything, staring back until finally understanding. Sighing he rolled his eyes. "Do you need everything spelled out for you? I'm still possessing you, but I have a spiritual doppelgänger out there, only you can see it. Basically it's me in two places at once. Me out there to look around for things and guide you, me in here to control you and leech off your energy while we work. Like your crotch top plugged into the wall and your phone plugged into your crotch top. You're the wall, I'm the crotch top, and my doppelgänger is the phone. Get it?" John's forehead crinkled a bit as he stared at the representation of the spirit in the passenger seat.  
  
"He looks different," he admitted. "I don't know why."  
  
"Because I'm utilizing him from archived images of myself. This is what you see when you're forced to remember me; as you can see it's only...50% accurate. Maybe less." He explained. John continued to stare at the version of Sherlock his mind made up, then turned and shut the door. Pulling his seat belt over him he buckled in.  
  
"So he's not really there." John confirmed, pulling out. He looked at the clock for a quick moment before turning and making his way out through the trees and down the road.  
  
"No, he's not. But I can assure you he's the only one I can create in your mind. I'm not going to make you go 'John Nash' on everyone." John smiled gently, hoping that he couldn't anyway, not just wouldn't.  
  
The doctor drove along the road, shifting uncomfortably on his way to Bristol, his eyes darting from the road to the clock. It wasn't until they hit the outskirts of Bristol did Sherlock speak up. "What is the matter with you?" He questioned.  
  
"What?" John looked up shocked, his eyes skirting back to the road.  
  
"You're fidgeting. Stop." The ghost practically demanded. John frowned, one hand moving down to his lap, his fingers idly wrapping around his package.  
  
"Sorry," he replied. "Blasted thing hadn't gone away yet." He muttered, pulling up to some red lights and stopping.  
  
"Why does it need to?" Sherlock questioned, although it was obvious that the ghosts attention was elsewhere other than the discussion.  
  
"I don't want to meet the woman with an erection." He snorted. "What would that make me?"  
  
"A short man with an erection?" Sherlock opted.  
  
"Try a weirdo in a jumper claiming to be a consulting detective, standing in her kitchen with a boner." John retorted, going once the light turned green.  
  
"Just talk about it as you are now and she'll fall madly in love with your poetic use of the English language." Sherlock taunted, snickering. "I know I sure have."  
  
"Yeah yeah," John muttered turning down one of the streets. "Mock me all you want, it doesn't change the fact I have to get rid of this erection before walking into her house." He slowed down. He hesitated before pulling into a driveway of smaller house and parked the car. Inhaling deeply he looked down at his lap and removed his hand, staring at the awkward tent in his pants.  
  
"Persistent isn't he?" Sherlock commented, his voice indecipherable. It had an odd tone to it, one that sounded a mixture of impressed and a few others, and with his emotions locked away from John's grasp he couldn't just turn to reading his thoughts. He shifted, watching it rub against the cloth of his jeans.  
  
"Always has been." John agreed, feeling deterred.  
  
"Hands down, relax, here comes some 'Sherlock Holmes: Chub Be Gone'" John grimaced at the name, but the rush of adrenaline that sped through him due to anxious curiosity made him lick his lips. He waited. Suddenly a dull feeling ran through his brain. A very controlled setting, all adrenaline coming to a halt. After a few moments of being trapped in a feelingless state, his erection softened, laying once more between his thighs. John sighed, his eyes closing.  
  
"Thanks," he turned pushing his door open.  
  
"Not a problem." John shut the door, looking at his phone for the time. 2:45. He still had 15 minutes, but he figured she wouldn't care. Stuffing his phone back into his pocket he locked the car and made his way up the porch steps. Standing outside of the door he looked around for any sign of any abuse, security or doorbells. Finding only a doorbell he rang it. He barely heard its melodically chime through the door. A few moments later a woman peered through the curtain. Shocked she closed it, the sound of locks being turned and slid reaching his ears. The door opened, all but a chain lock unlocked.  
  
"Can I help you?" She questioned, looking at him nervously.  
  
"Hi, I'm John Watson, I called yesterday about your case." He smiled warmly. She hesitated for a moment before shutting the door. The sound of the final lock sliding out of place could be heard before the door swung open slowly.  
  
"Come on in." She stepped back. She was young, possibly in her mid 20's to early 30's. Short, petite, attractive with straight black hair. He smiled, bowing his head as he stepped inside, keeping to the mat in front of the door.  
  
"Do you want me to take my shoes off?" He questioned, looking at her as she stared at him, her fingers fiddling with her shirt idly.  
  
"Ah, you don't have to." She replied. She was wearing a blouse and a pair of leggings. She was beautiful, green eyes, full lips although the corner of her mouth was swollen. Her left eye black and blue, her nose torn by the sellion.  
  
"Keep it together John, you're making me ill." The ghosts voice sounded beside him. He looked up for a split second, noting the spirits presence then smiled at the girl.  
  
"I'll take them off so as not to trail mud through your lovely home." Carefully he slid his shoes off and tucked them out of the way.  
  
"Would you like some tea, or coffee?" She questioned, turning towards the kitchen. John licked his lips, not quite sure if he should accept it or not.

“Ah, not if it'll be trouble.” He replied, leaving it completely open for her to decide. He carefully followed her in, removing his coat. Suddenly his vision turned, taking in every ounce of detail in the room. He paused, his breath coming in sharp as he stopped in the doorway to the dining room. She paused and turned, looking at him concerned as his eyes skimmed over every nook and cranny of her house.

_Spotless, some places worn particularly around areas that congregate dirt: Obsessive Compulsive tendencies . Cabinets labeled: for guests and or a significant other. Small table, two chairs: not many guests. Scratches and nicks on tables, serrated edges. Possible disregard for table top: not Marlene's work, significant other._

He paused, catching a knife wound in the table, a few barely noticeable droplets of stains.

_Blood. Marlene is OCD, there wouldn't be nicks and scratches all over her table; no knife wounds or blood either. Marks done by significant other, not friend: Boyfriend._

He turned and looked around the kitchen for any other things to indicate their dating. No images on the fridge, no nothing on the fridge.

“Are you alright?” Marlene's voice interrupted. He turned, looking at her but didn't say anything right away as he started knit-picking at all of the bruises.

_Faint bruises around her throat, bald spot along the hairline on her forehead and tear of flesh indicates was pulled up and not straight out. Bruise along bottom eyelid indicates attacker is taller; lack of bruise along the brow bone confirms it. Rip along sellion suggests upper hit, collision more to the side; crook in nose indicates she could have leaned into it but not likely. She turned her head to avoid the hit, fist hit a couple of times to cause swelling in the cheek nearest upper lip; corner of mouth also swollen._

“Fine.” John nodded, smiling at her. “House seems old.” He admitted, looking around. “But rebuilt?” She looked at him confused before looking around, nodding.

“Yeah, my parents lived here before they passed away a few summers ago.” She admitted. Turning she held her hand out, motioning to a seat. Turning he sat down. “So you're a consulting detective?” She questioned, plugging in an electric kettle to warm up water. She wiped the counter off as she waited. “I've never heard of one before.” She looked back at him before joining him at the table.

“Ah, I'mone of a few.” He admitted. “Actually, probably the only one alive right now, there was only one before me...the uh...one who invented the occupation.” He ran his fingers through his hair staring at her. She nodded, her jaw tense. He saw it. The look of distrust in her eyes; the skepticism. She didn't speak at first, but after a few moments she took a deep breath, averting her eyes.

“Um...if you don't mind, I'd like to see your credentials.” John froze, staring at her with a blank expression, trying to keep himself from panicking.

 _Shit_. He thought to himself.

“Calm down John,” the ghost sat on the table beside him, his legs crossed.

 _What do I do?_ He thought, licking his lips.

“Let me take over for a moment.” He replied. John swallowed, then smiled.

“I have nothing written down,” he admitted. “no certificate, but I can prove to you I am very good at what I do.” He sat back in his chair. Carefully he dropped his guard, letting the ghost take over.

“For instance,” Sherlock took over for John, making sure his voice remain the same, although it was a bit of a struggle for him. “You moved into this house four years ago, remodeling everything after your mother died, your father ending up in a nursing home with Alzheimer's. The only other family member you have kept contact with is your sister Kelly who disapproves of you dating the man whom assaulted you for his obvious abusive behavior. To keep your sister from finding out you're dating him, you keep it all hush hush but keeping it hush hush has landed you in deep water.” She stared at him, swallowing hard as he spoke.

“How do you know that?” She questioned, her voice quiet.

“Simply put? The molding in the house is no older than 3 or 4 years old, what parts of the house that weren't remodeled having the same amount of scratches and wear as your newly remodeled bits. Given the state of cleanliness of your home, you have OCD. There are a few reminders of your father in this household, but not of your mother, my guesses are her loss was difficult on you, having enough problems of your own you stashed them away. There are a few keepsakes of your fathers still around and left out, but not a whole lot and not out in the open; sentimentality. There are a few photographs of you, your father and your mother hanging out, but those are the only things in the house you haven't cleaned. They've accumulated enough dust to make the images un-viewable. They're painful memories.

“As for your father being in a nursing home, you have a visitation written on your calendar saying _visit St. Alexandria's_. The only nursing home around here and a good one; if you hated your father you wouldn't visit and you wouldn't put him in a good home. Your sister, Kelly, is the closest to you judging by the sibling jewelry you have on and that frayed, braided yarn bracelet. Given the wear of the yarn and the loss of vibrancy it's been around your wrist since you were a child, occasionally taken off but once in a while; of course there's the state of your wrist getting bigger, but that explains the extended bit of homemade jewelry. She's also one of the only ones you have photos of besides your parents. My guesses are because you only have two chairs that means you don't get many guests, so holidays are probably your sister and you no one else and when your sister isn't around, it's your boyfriend.

“Your boyfriend, given the lack of photographs with you and him hanging around -or any traces of his existence at all, leads me to believe your sister wants you to stay away from him. But being in love you started dating him anyway, and his abusive nature is apparent in the fact that your table has blood stains, nicks and knife marks. Any one with OCD would never damage a piece of furniture like this and he would wish to injure you as much as possible even after he's gone.” John stopped, his entire deduction stunning even himself, but he kept it hidden.

Marlene stared at him, her lips parted in shock as the kettle behind her whistled. Licking his lips self-consciously John cleared his throat, looking away. “Sorry.” he muttered.

“No, no that was...” She bit her lip as the machine continued to wail. Standing she turned around and grabbed a couple of mugs and poured the hot water in. “It was correct. Casey has been a little...pushy, ever since I met him. But I've known him for years, ever since we were kids. We've always been close, and well...I always dismissed his short fuse. Kelly didn't want us dating because she claimed he was too rough around us. But she didn't know him like I did. She didn't know what kind of life he had growing up, his abusive parents. It wasn't his fault. He just...I got him mad."  
  
"It doesn't excuse him from hitting you," John said as she turned, putting his tea down for him. "Thank you." He took the cup looking at her.  
  
"I know that now," she admitted. "I've known for a while, but..."  
  
"It's dangerous to up and leave." John nodded, taking a drink of his tea.  
  
"Come on John, knock the pleasantries." The ghost muttered beside him irritatedly. The doctor cleared his throat, swallowing his mouthful of tea, looking up at her.  
  
"So um...about your case." He placed the cup back on the table. "I couldn't help but note your paranoia both on the phone and your precautions at the door. I can't help but feel that he's still threatening you?" She looked down, her head hanging a bit as she nodded.  
  
"It's been a bit dangerous. I know he knew what he did was wrong, he does every time, but he knew that this time he couldn't just...blame something else." She admitted.  
  
"How long ago was the attack?" He questioned.  
  
"A week ago John, why else would she be sitting here with such little damage?" Sherlock huffed. "I'm going to speed things up here." John sat back, his heart jumping into his chest. He knew that what Marlene needed was to trust someone, but if Sherlock were to just jump in and rush-  
  
"Judging from the wounds, about a week ago, am I correct?" Sherlock questioned, John locked in the back of his own mind.  
  
 _Don't be an asshole._ John warned. _Not in my body, don't be an asshole._  
  
 _Be assertive John, no wonder you have so many jumpers from Christmas._ Sherlock glared at him.  
  
"Um...yes." She nodded.  
  
"He attacked you, the wounds were so great you were hospitalized so he went into hiding. No one knew you two were dating because you made every precaution not to be seen in that light in public so it would 't reach your sister. When you were attacked people thought he was a stranger." He said, sipping his tea. "It's good. Thank you." He swallowed composing himself, looking her over. "The wounds are a week old, but judging from them he is about 6'2", thin but muscular, ginger with shoulder length hair."  
  
"Yes, how did you know?" She looked at him stunned.  
  
"Angle of the hit on your eye. He's taller so you took more of the hit to you cheek bone instead of his being shorter which would usually result to bruising heavily on the brow bone. Torn and puffy lip comes up from an angle, lower right to upper left, judging by the ripping along your sellion and your slightly crooked nose." He explained. "Ginger being from the hair on your shirt." He pointed to the shoulder of her shirt. "Unless you have a shaggy ginger cat which I doubt." He fished into his pocket, pulling out his phone. "Blue eyes."  
  
"Yes, but-"  
  
"I guessed on the eyes. When was the last time you spoke with him?" He went to the notes section on the phone, readying himself. He didn't need to take notes for himself, but he would know that John would need something.  
  
"Um...this morning. He came by asking for his other pair of shoes." He looked up and smiled.  
  
"Ah, good, can you bring them to me?" She looked at him confused for a moment then nodded, heading into the other room.

"What vehicle does he drive?" John questioned, taking over.  
  
"John, don't be an idiot, he's a man with violence issues and a short temper, I doubt they'd let him keep a vehicle." Sherlock scoffed.  
  
"He doesn't have his license." She confirmed. "He lost it a couple years ago because he kept getting speeding tickets and running red lights." Sherlock turned and gave John a large exaggerated _I told you so_ grin.  
  
"Shut up." John muttered before looking back at Marlene. She came back with the shoes and placed them on the table. Rubbing his hands John took them and looked them over. Sherlock began to analyze them straight away.  
  
"Scuffed shoe, worn on the sole at the toe, ball of the foot and torn at the heel. He get's into a lot of fights and scuffs his feet as he walks."  
  
"How do you know that?" John questioned, his eyebrows furrowing.  
  
"The scuffing is heavier on the right shoe, he brings his foot forward to stabilize himself as he punches or back to ground himself as being punched, but it's presents on both feet so that means he scuffs his feet as he walks. The tear at the heel suggests he's been knocked down a few times, ripping the bottom from the rest of the shoe as he tries to catch himself." The ghost explained. "Given he's on foot, he's not too far away, especially if he wishes to keep his eye on Marlene. These shoes look possibly 5 years old, but the insides aren't as worn as the outside so they were bought but never worn until recently. At least within the last 3 years."  
  
John flipped the shoes over looking at the inside, his forehead crinkling as he carefully brought them to his nose. "You smelled it too. Sewage water of some sort. Stagnant puddle, river side, treatment plant. Somewhere with water, the shoes are dry now but they've experienced a lot of water as of recently. They're stained and water logged. Bottom of the shoe, the treading is packed full of bits of wood and top soil," he dragged his fingers over it, flaking some off. "What places would you see wood?"  
  
"A lumber yard," John mused.  
  
"Yes, but look at the grade and kind of wood used." Sherlock pointed. John's eyes narrowed, looking closer.  
  
"This is mulch. Cedar mulch." John grinned a bit.  
  
"So that means we find a place that uses cedar mulch near a body of water deep enough to submerse the shoes and a place to hide within 2 miles of this house." Sherlock smiled, turning for the door. Looking up John pulled out a piece of paper and wrote his cellphone number down, handing it to Marlene.  
  
"Take this. Lock the house up, stay away from the windows, pretend your not home or asleep or something." John instructed. "If he comes back, don't answer, call me and we'll come and make the arrest ok?" She took the piece of paper, looking up at him nervously. She nodded, fidgeting a bit before throwing her arms around him, hugging him tight. John was a taken aback a bit, but hugged back. "You'll be ok, I promise." Grabbing her shoulders he moved her back.  
  
"Be careful." She bid. He smiled nodding then turned and made for the door. Slipping his shoes on he walked out and made for the car.  
  
"I'm moving this down the road," he said, pulling the car door open and getting in.  
  
"What? Why?" Sherlock appeared, sitting next to him in the passenger seat.  
  
"If her boyfriend comes and sees a strangers car parked in her drive he's going to flip and possibly attempt to hurt her. Besides, you probably want to walk and find him?" He questioned pulling out of the driveway to find another place to park.  
  
"Possibly." He admitted. "I don't know Bristol like I used to John so it might take a bit of time."  
  
"Try not to take too much time." John made his way to Harry's, pulling into the driveway.  
  
"Why are we here?" Sherlock questioned as John got out. "John, this is outside of our limits."  
  
"Yes but it's a free place to park and we can catch a cab." He climbed out and locked the doors. He made his way down the street, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. Quickly he dialed a number and placed it to his ear. "Yeah, hello, Harry this is John, not sure if you're home yet or not but I'm using your driveway for a bit...yeah...ok I got it...alright I should be back soon. Take care." He hung up.  
  
"How is she doing?" Sherlock asked, his projection walking a bit faster than John.  
  
"Um...she's fine. Surgery went well, she came home early this morning apparently." He replied, reaching the main road. He held his hand up, hailing a taxi.  
  
"That was a short Conversation for that much info." Sherlock mused, watching a black car pull over.  
  
"Yeah that was the first thing she told me." He smiled, climbing in. He gave the guy Marlene's address and sat back. "Now let's think, where can this guy be hiding?" He muttered, keeping his voice low to seem as if he were musing to himself. He hated having to think most of his responses so as to not seem like a nut house while talking to the detective.  
  
"There are three places I remember when I was alive," Sherlock admitted. "Within the perimeter of where we're looking. There was a pond downtown that had a bridge over it. A park."  
  
"That was filled in for flats." John muttered.

  
"Really? Ugh you people," Sherlock bit his lip, shaking his head. “So we're surrounded by River Avon, the Bathurst Basin and Floating Harbour.” Sherlock muttered, his hands pressed together, his fingertips to his lips.

“He could be hiding out anywhere near Queen Square, maybe even Quaker's Burial Ground.” John opted.

“Right. Any place with gardens -national parks or residential.” He replied, looking up as the cab pulled over. A man climbed in, flicking a cigarette before he did. He slid into the spot where Sherlock was sitting, making the spirit vanish.

“Sorry, hope you don't mind me bummin' a ride wif ya.” He said looking at John. The doctor smiled, shaking his head.

“Not at all.”

“Thanks, just got back from me girlfriends. Ain't seen you around b'fore.” He nodded his head a bit, looking at John seriously.

“I just moved from London.” John forced his smile. He didn't like this guy. He was nosy and smelled like body odor and cigarettes.

“Police?” He questioned, going a bit stiff as he did. John stared at him confused, his eyebrows furrowing. He knew he didn't look like a police officer, on force or undercover. Why a person would assume he was made him fidget a bit.

“No, Doctor, why?” The man smiled, shifting in his seat.

“Just kinda look like police. Bastards follow me around all the time. Think they're bein' so crafty too. Follow me an' drive by like they isn't followin' me. I know they are.” He sniffled, sucking down a mouthful of mucus that made John's face twist in disgust.

“Paranoia,” Sherlock spoke beside the doctor. “Unreasonable paranoia, hot temper.”

“You don't think this is our guy do you?” John questioned, keeping his inquiries in his mind so their friend wouldn't hear and assume.

“We're in the right about.” Sherlock replied before looking down “There's a possibility, we'll tail him.” He replied. John's eyebrows shot up in shock as the cab pulled off to the side of the road. The man paid and climbed out as did the ghost.

“Uh, this is my stop as well.” He smiled, also paying the cabby. He climbed out after the man, being sure not to look suspicious as he rounded the car and got back up onto the sidewalk. The man looked at him, following him before heading his separate way, making his way down the street.

“For someone who's paranoid he's awfully trusting.” Sherlock commented, appearing beside John again. The doctor jumped a bit but ground his teeth, looking off after the man. He watched for a long moment, letting him get a good enough distance ahead before he started following, tucking his hands in his pockets.

The ghost went ahead, leading John through the twisted labyrinth of a city, taking routes that would rarely cross paths with the man they were following, but keeping a close eye on him.

After about an hour of tailing him, they came to a stop. There was a small garden by a small restaurant. John hid behind a car, making sure to remain out of sight as the man cut through the small garden, wet woodchips sticking to his shoes. “So this is where he's been picking up his mulch.” Sherlock mused.

“So this is our guy?” John questioned, seeming a bit shocked at the fact that it was that simple -they didn't even have to use any real detective work.

“Looks like it. We just need to confirm-” He dispersed. John looked at where he stood for a moment confused before the pain hit him. A blunt, searing heat coursed through his skull as he fell to his knees, his vision flashing red before fading to black.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

 

John groaned, his eyelashes fluttering a bit as he rolled over onto his back but stopped once he felt his hands get crunched by his weight.

“I fuckin' told ya you were bein' followed man.” A man's voice reached his ears as he looked up.

“John,” Sherlock looked at him, reaching over. “are you ok?”

“Ugh, peachy.” John grumbled. “What happened?”

“You were hit from behind. Apparently our lovely case, Casey hasn't confided in remaining alone.” the ghost explained. John groaned, fidgeting a bit. He attempted to pull his hands to his sides but stopped when the bite of ropes digging into his wrists sent a shot of discomfort up through his arms.

“He tied me up?” John growled quietly. “Bloody fucking great.”

“Keep calm John.” The ghost stood up and made his way forward, walking around the room they were in.

“I am calm. I'm just fucking pissed.” He admitted, attempting to pull his wrists free.

“Who are they? They fuckin' cops?” John stopped, looking up. He didn't know where they were, but according to the smell and being surrounded by cement, he figured they were somewhere in or around the sewers.

“Nah, he said he was a doctor-”

“And you fuckin' believe him? Why was he followin you then, hm? Why was he fucking followin' you?”

“They don't sound too happy do they?” Sherlock muttered.

“No, not one bit.” John ground his teeth, pulling his wrists apart as hard as he could.

“Well we can't jus' let 'im go.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was all tied up! He'll go to the cops an' get us all arrested an' shit!”

“Then what do we do?”

“What the fuck you think we gotta do? Kill 'im!” John froze, feeling his heart stop in his chest. Sherlock turned, looking at him, a look of worry rushing over his features.

“That's not good.” The ghost mused, his lips pursed.

“You think?” John retorted, his words coming out in a hiss. He closed his eyes, rolling his wrists, attempting to see if he couldn't slide the ropes down over his hands. When that didn't work he rolled his wrists up, running his fingers across the ropes.

“You're handling this awfully well.” Sherlock commented, looking at him.

“I was in the Army, going up against two crack heads is nothing,” he muttered, wincing as the fibers ripped open his fingertips. “but if you don't help me out of this I have a feeling I'm probably going to lose this calmness pretty damn fast!” The ghost turned, making his way back to John's side.

“Alright, let me take over.” he stood over him, rubbing his hands together carefully. John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, allowing his defenses to drop. With a sudden click of clarity, he shifted. He dug his fingers in between the ropes that bound his wrists, allowing ghost to do his thing. The sound of footsteps against the damp cement reached his ears, his eyes shooting up. He took note of the area, looking for vital areas to sneak out, but there wasn't much to go on.

The room was dark, the walls curved, almost like the inside of a giant pipe. There was a wall behind him, and the walls extended into a long tunnel. There didn't seem to be anyway to get out of there that didn't require him to run right by them. Grunting he closed his eyes, feeling around the ropes even more, pulling at them. After a few minutes they loosened enough for him to slip his hands out, Sherlock falling back into his mind and allowing John to take over once again.

John pushed himself to his feet as the footsteps got louder; his legs and arms were sore from laying on the hard ground for so long.

“Hey!” One of the men rushed forward, holding a long hunk of wood in his hand. He swung at John. The Doctor smashed his hand back, his instincts kicking in as the threat escalated. His hit knocking the wood back and away from him. Swinging forward with his other hand he punched the guy in the chest, knocking him back.

The man stumbled back, tripping over a ridge in the cement and hit the ground. Stepping over him John leaned down, feeling his blood boil. Grabbing his shirt he pulled him up and snapped his fist across his face once, stunning the guy, then again, ripping his lip and nose open before finishing up with a third hit which knocked him unconcious.

“You fuck!” A piece of wood hit John's shoulder, throwing him off balance a bit. He reeled back, dodging another hit. His eyes snapped up, landing on Marlene's boyfriend Casey.

“John!” The ghost kicked up the piece of wood the man had dropped when John had knocked him back. John lashed out grabbing it and swung, hitting Casey in the side of the head before the kid could bring his weapon down on John's head. The single hit sent him barreling to the floor where he laid still. John panted, standing over the two, his hand going up to his shoulder, rubbing the spot he was hit. Dropping the piece of wood he slipped his hands into his pockets, digging for his phone. When he couldn't find it he groaned.

“You son of a bitch.” He stepped forward and crouched, digging through the pockets of both Casey and his friend. After a moment he found the phone tucked away in the back pocket of his first attacker. He pulled it out and looked at it, knowing that it would be a good opportunity to call the police, but when his phone received no bars he sighed and tucked his phone back into his pocket. Turning back he rifled through both Casey's and his friends pockets, pulling out their wallets. He looked through them, spotting some ID just enough to give him their names, then stuffed their wallets back into their pockets and turned, following the tunnel out.

After a few minutes of walking he stopped, coming to a grate with a heavy duty door. He paused, looking at it curiously.

“A storm drain,” Sherlock commented, stepping forward into his sight. “Some of them were dug out and fortified as bomb shelters to use during a nuclear out break. Not many of them exist though anymore. And only one exists within the 2 to 5 mile distance of Marlene's house. Close to...Queen Square Garden.” He looked back at John. “How are you doing?” He questioned. John didn't really respond right away, shrugging his shoulders as he pushed the door open.

“I'll be fine.” He assured him. It was dark outside, the sun seeming to have just gone down. He took a deep breath and fished his phone out again, calling the police.

“Hello Detective Inspector Gregson here.” A man greeted.

“This is John Watson, I believe Scotland Yard has taken up the case for Marlene Samson?” He replied, wincing as he rubbed at his shoulder.

“Yes, do you have any helpful information for us?” He questioned. He sounded to be an older man. Not _old_ but at least in his late 40's early 50's.

“Her attacker was her abusive boyfriend Casey Orez. For the past week he has been hiding in an old storm tunnel by Queen Square Garden. He's had an accomplice by the name of Tony Bamusci,” He shifted, his eyes closed as he tried to remember the other mans names.

“And how do you know this? And what does it matter to you?” Gregson questioned, sounding skeptical and a bit short tempered.

“I'm a consulting detective hired by Marlene to find her boyfriend and hand him over to New Scotland Yard.” He admitted. “Seeing how your department put her case on the back burner because you were taking so long to figure it out.”

“She didn't give us much to go off. All we got were some pictures of the guy. No whereabouts or _last seens_.”

“Yet here I was in less than 12 hours able to track down a man without a photograph.” John retorted. “He's ready for the arrest, DI. I'll remain here until you arrive and make sure they remain here.” He replied before hanging up the phone. Turning he shut the door to the storm drain and locked it, leaning against the door.

He stared off across the way, the sound of the traffic around them faint. After a few moments, his eyes found their way up to the sky where he stared at the moon, feeling the bite of the winter air on his face and fingers. He shivered a bit.

“Are you sure you're alright?” Sherlock questioned, staring at him concerned.

“Yeah, I'm fine.” John smiled, looking at him. “Been a long night. Can't believe we caught him.” He chuckled lightly, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Sherlock nodded, looking off across the way as well. “How did you...” The ghost stopped, looking back at him curiously. John licked his lips, his forehead crinkling as he thought through what he wanted to ask. “How did you give me that piece of wood? I thought your doppelganger couldn't interact with objects?”

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded, understanding the curiousity. He shifted as well, crossing his arms as the sound of a passing car laid on his horn most likely for someone who had decided to cross the street without looking, or another driver who was driving recklessly. “My doppelganger can't interact with objects.” He confirmed. “I risked it and broke the possession for a few seconds, just long enough to get you a weapon.” John's eyebrows furrowed as he looked at the ghost.

“I thought that if a ghost broke possession he...well...whatever happens to ghosts.” Sherlock nodded his head, taking a deep breath.

“Not entirely. You see, when a ghost breaks possession, their spirit is left covered in a...spiritual residue I suppose if you want to say that. As long as I have a mark, and a power source I can return to the body as long as I work quick enough.” He explained. “Like when you unplug a television before shutting it off, it still works for a couple of seconds after wards before it shuts off.” John nodded.

“So you broke the possession, tossed me a piece of wood and then re-established connection before you were completely out of my body.” He mused, rewording it in a way that would make sense to him.

Suddenly the sound of a car door opening and slamming shut reached his ears. Footsteps approached them, and in a matter of moments a man with short hair and a stern expression appeared, slowly making his descent into the ditch the tunnel was located.

“D.I Dimmock.” He flashed a badge. “You must be Consulting _Detective_ John Watson.” He sneered. John stared at him as he chuckled as if it were funny. The doctor felt his blood boil.

“Is that funny?” He questioned, his arms crossed.

“It's just that there is no such thing as a _Consulting Detective,”_ He did air-quotes, sending a pulse of anger through John's body. “so I suggest you leave the game to the big boys, shall we?” He walked forward, walking by him. John stepped back, holding his hand out, stopping him. He stared into Dimmock's eyes, his eyebrows pinched in the center as his jaw tightened.

“I just solved a case in 8 hours that you spent an entire week on, and I was asleep for 5 of the hours.” He growled. “While you might not have ever heard the _term_ Consulting Detective, I suggest you realize that you're nothing more than a child in a big boy's shoes stomping all over the toes of a detective _God_.” He sank his fingers in to his chest, complimenting Sherlock. “It would be one thing if _you_ had solved this case, but since you _didn't_ , I suggest you promptly pull your bottom lip over your head and swallow. Please and thank you.” He pulled his hand away and shoved by him. Sherlock looked back at Dimmock as a few officers pushed their way into the tunnels, re-emerging a little while later with Casey and his friend.

“A detective _God_?” Sherlock questioned.

“Compared to them you are.” John replied, climbing up out of the ditch and making his way back to the road. Sherlock looked at him curiously, but smiled as John raised his hand, hailing a cab. He took the cab back to Harry's where he got out and made his way to the car. He stifled a yawn, stretching before climbing in behind the wheel of the car.

“Shouldn't you go and get your wounds checked out?” Sherlock opted, sitting in the passenger seat of the car.

“No need,” John replied, turning the car on. Carefully he pulled out into traffic and made his way for home. “it was just a hit to the shoulder.”

“Yes, but are you forgetting the hit to the back of the head you took?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, looking from the vast lights as they rushed by.

“Actually, yes I did.” John muttered. “But I'm sure I didn't get a concussion.” He confirmed as he pulled out onto the long stretch of empty road, heading for his place.

“If you're sure.” Sherlock muttered in reply. The rest of the ride was silent. No words were exchanged as John pulled into the path, carefully making his way up the driveway past the trees. Pulling in he parked the car and shut it off. He climbed out and slammed the door behind him, his eye lids feeling heavy as he made his way inside.

Once inside he hung his keys up on a nail by the door and slid his coat off. Pulling his phone out he called Marlene, just to give her a heads up on the news. John drummed his fingers as the phone rang, a burning feeling coursing through him, the sudden urge to pee and sleep running through him as Sherlock appeared before him as he always had.

“Hi, Marlene? This is John Watson, I just wanted to call you and let you know Casey has been found and is now in custody of Scotland Yard.” He smiled lightly, kicking his shoes off. Sherlock watched, noting his smile stretching across his face. “No problem at all, I'm glad I could help you sleep easier at night...yes...thank you so much. You have a great night.” He pulled the phone away and hung up, looking at Sherlock.

“So,” Sherlock held his arms up, his head tilted to the side a bit. “what did you think?” John didn't reply right away, his forehead crinkled as his lips pursed, his head cocking just a bit as he looked at the detective confused, then nodded, his eyes sliding shut.

“Ah, I thought it was...” He trailed off, thinking back on the night. He had gone, hunted down a man who abused his girlfriend for years, vanished after landing his girlfriend in the hospital and got him arrested. Not to mention he had been knocked out, injured and almost _killed_. The more he thought about it the more he realized how stupid he had been for accepting it in the first place. But the pride he felt for catching Casey and his friend and smearing it into that pompous Dimmock's face that he had caught a bad guy before Scotland Yard drew a smile on his face. A smile that only stretched farther when he looked at the ghost. “bloody amazing.”

Sherlock looked at him, a smiled coming to his own face.

“Well then, Consulting Detective John Watson,” He stepped forward. John held up a hand stopping him, his smile fading a bit. Sherlock looked at him confused, his head cocked to the side.

“No, I'm a Consulting Doctor and sidekick to the Consulting Detective.” He replied, letting his hand drop. “Any compliments they give to the detective work I do are all yours; after all it's your skills, not mine.” He smiled again, stretching. “It's been a long day, shall we?” Turning he made his way through the office and up the stairs to his bedroom. “I mean, after all, we have other cases to look at tomorrow.” Sherlock looked after him, his smile coming back to his face as a surge of joy rushed through him.

Sherlock Holmes, worlds greatest and only consulting detective was back in the game, and this time, he had one hell of an indestructible sidekick; Dr. John Watson.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas Eve and John decides to take a break from cases to spend some time with Sherlock. But when he forgets he didn't by presents, he has to run out for last minute shopping. When he comes back he's locked in some...otherworldly reality of the night Sherlock died, and it's only then, through the admission of feelings from Sherlock's friend Greg Lestrade that John can come to terms with his own feelings for the ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Hot, rough sex ahead. Finally.**

**Chapter 15**

 

 

John woke up early, his cheek pressed against the hot shoulder blade of the detective he'd spent an immeasurable amount of time with over the past weeks. He stretched, his eyes feeling heavy, the rest of his body sore as the bruises about his shoulders began to throb. Ever since the case for Marlene he'd been swamped with cases just to keep his mind busy and the ghost occupied.

Rolling over he unwrapped his arms from around the ghost and stared at the ceiling, feeling the cold air nip at his nose while the rest of him cooked comfortably underneath the heavy comforter. He didn't exactly know what it was that had lead to them sleeping together, but he didn't really mind. After all, when Sherlock shared the bed with him it was warm, and as of late the nights had been rather cold. Plus John took solace in the fact that Sherlock had no sexual interest in anything -although he really couldn't speak for himself.

Pulling the blankets back he slipped out into the cold and made sure to replace the blankets to their normal spot. He made his way across the room as fast as he could to his robes to cover his exposed flesh as it was attacked by the morning's bite -he slept in his pants only to keep the heat regulated under the sheets.

Grabbing his robes he pulled them on and slipped his slippers on before making his way out of the bedroom, grimacing as his body creaked. The last case they had worked on was in search of a rare diamond that had been placed in a museum. It was stolen and the thief had chosen an old junk yard to hide it until the police investigation died down.

John never really realized just how much Scotland Yard had their hands into affairs until he became a consulting detective. While they worked mainly in London, they had a few teams that they had stationed on other cities and towns. Bristol, Cardiff, even over to Canterbury and so on. John ended up dealing with Dimmock more than he really cared to, but a job was a job and when he solved it before the DI he couldn't help but feel smug about it. Occasionally though John had the pleasure of dealing with a DI Raegan; a pleasant, dark skinned girl with French background. It was because of her that he had gotten the publicity and jobs he had, even if Dimmock did think he was a joke.

He made his way downstairs, rubbing at his eyes as he tried to wake himself up, going through all of the things that had happened the night before, trying to recall what cases he had to focus on today. When none of them came to mind he made his way to the dining room, checking his laptop -in which he kept a record of his completed cases and future cases and even a manuscript for a novel.

Pushing the on button he made for the kitchen, making a pot of coffee as he waited for the laptop to boot up. Grabbing himself a cup he went back and sat down, bringing up his calendar he had everything marked down.

His eyes skimmed across each day, each day and case marked off by a red 'X', and when he got to the end of the row of 'X's he felt his blood freeze in his veins. December 24. It was Christmas Eve. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he buried his face in his palms. That's why no cases came to mind, he had purposely refused to take any cases that would overlap with the holiday. And while he loved Christmas -namely spending time with friends and family- he was dreading it for one reason...He didn't get anyone gifts.

Grabbing his cup he stood and went to the freezer. Grabbing a couple of ice cubes he dropped them into the liquid and stirred the coffee, waiting for it to cool down before chugging it. Putting his mug in the sink he made his way for the laundry room and grabbed the first shirt and pair of trousers he touched, throwing them on.

He had to quickly get dressed and head out. Most of the stores would be jam packed with last minute shoppers and he had no idea what to get anyone. Slipping his shirt on and over his head he made his way for the door before stopping. Sherlock was asleep still and he knew that if he vanished without letting the ghost know where he'd gone they might have another... _halloween incident_ and he wouldn't see the detective for another couple of months. That was the last thing he wanted.

Turning on his heel he grabbed a packet of sticky notes and wrote out a short, to-the-point note reading: _Sherlock, I've gone to do Christmas Shopping, I promise I'll be back later. I hope you slept well, take the day off, recharge. John._ Pulling back he stuck it to the top of his laptop where the spirit would see it -seeing how he rarely watched telly and he didn't eat so sticking it on the telly or the fridge was out of the question.

Once sure that everything was in place -or rather he had everything set up so if Sherlock _didn't_ see it John could get away with saying _well I left you a note_ \- he slipped his shoes and coat on, thinking back on all of the conversations he'd had with Harry and Clara, trying to remember if they'd mentioned anything that they wanted.

Most years he didn't know what to get them, but now that he had a good amount of money he didn't have to skimp out on the gifts -he wasn't going to go hog wild, but he wasn't going to get them something lame and cheap either. Harry deserved more than that, especially with what she was going through with her chemotherapy.

Grabbing his keys he slipped out, making his way across the yard quickly to get out of the cold as fast as he could. Unlocking the car door with the remote he pulled the door open and gave a final look around, making sure that the cat wasn't outside and wanting to go in before he vanished -even if she was Sherlock would let her in when he woke up. Climbing in he started the car, cranking the heat up and shutting the door behind him. He waited for the car to get warm and the windows to defrost before throwing the car in reverse. Backing up, he turned around and made for the road.

He'd stop by the mall first and see if he couldn't find anything worth purchasing. After that he could stop by some jewelry stores and specialty shops. But he wanted to hurry, he didn't want to spend all of his time out grunging around, grinding shoulders and elbows with everyone else. The sooner he got out and got to it the faster he could come home and relax wit his buddy and enjoy the holidays.

Maybe he should buy something for Sherlock as well?

 

Haunted

 

 

John pulled into the driveway as the sun set. He was exhausted having scoured half of the stores in Bristol looking for gifts that were good enough to give to his Harry and Clara, and Molly. Pushing the door open he climbed out, his arms sore from the case, but turning stiff from carrying the endless amount of bags he might have gone too crazy in purchasing.

Shutting the driver-side door he walked around and popped the trunk. He carefully strung the bags onto his arms, pulling them all out at once. They were heavy, some filled with clothes, some filled with jewelry and electronics and things like that. Each arm supported at least 5 or 6 bags all stuffed to the top with gifts -and admittedly, most of the gifts were for Sherlock even though he knew he shouldn't have, after all he was a ghost.

Reaching up once all of the bags were shifted onto his arms he pulled the trunk down and turned looking at the house. All of the lights were off except a dull light which shown through the living room windows. John's forehead crinkled, the feeling of the house seeming a bit...desolate and dark. He stared at the house for a long moment, the sound of the ocean rushing up and over the shore. He stared at the light coming from the window in curiosity. It seemed a bit...dull for electricity.

Pausing he noted why it seemed that way. It was a candle. His jaw dropped a bit, his mouth hanging open as he made quick steps to the porch. “Oh no,” he muttered. “Please don't tell me my electricity was shut off.”

He bound up the steps, jumping over every other. Shifting the plastic handles of the bags to his wrists he reached forward and pulled the outside door open before pushing the inside door in. But what he saw inside made him freeze. It was his house, but it was different. The wallpaper a rather tacky yet cozy seeming wallpaper, white and black. The living room was piled with books, all messy and unkempt but organized in an odd way, and where his television once was was a large fire place. He stared at the room in awe, confusion and admittedly, fear until Sherlock came around the corner, dressed in a silk dressing robe. “Bloody hell what have you done to my house,” John laughed, teasing, but the detective didn't look up.

John put the bags on the floor and walked in, shutting the door behind him. “Sherlock?” He took a couple cautious steps forward before the sound of knuckles wrapping on the hard wood of the door made him jump. The detectives head snapped up, his skin soft, flawless.

“Come in.” He called out, a glass of wine in his hand. John whirled around, looking as the door opened. A man with graying hair stepped in in a long black coat and sharp looking outfit. It looked old and a bit regal. “Ah, Lestrade.” Sherlock turned looking at him with a sharp expression, his eyes like that of a hawks as he looked the other man over.

“Lestrade?” John questioned, his eyebrows furrowing as he stood between the ghost and the man at the door. Then it hit him. The name. John's breath hitched in his throat as he turned, looking at Sherlock. “Greg Lestrade? DI Greg Lestrade, your boss and friend? The one who bought the house and fixed it up? Carl's father?” But his questions fell on deaf ears.

“To what do I owe this visit?” he questioned, his eyes dropping to the dark red liquid in his glass.

“About that case-”

“I've already given you the credit, what else do you need of me?” Sherlock interrupted.

“I just...wanted to congratulate you on another successful case.” He shifted his weight. Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, his eyebrows raised. There was a look in his eye, an unreadable look that made John's stomach turn as did Lestrade's -by the way he fidgeted under the ghosts gaze.

“Thank you.” He smirked, downing the rest of his wine. He motioned for Lestrade to follow him in through a set of double doors that led to the dining room. The DI looked at him shocked for a moment before quickly pulling his coat off and haphazardly tossing it on the coat rack. John was about to say something when the DI walked right through him, the act ripping the oxygen from the doctor's lungs.

John whirled around, his eyes stuck on the DI as Lestrade practically ran to the dining room, his hand on his stomach.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” John questioned, his breathing coming in short gasps as his lungs began to ache.

“Aren't you supposed to be having Christmas with Karen?” Sherlock questioned in the next room, pulling out a couple of bottles of alcohol; a fine brandy and wine, followed by a couple of short glasses.

“I told her I was to be here, to make sure you're alright.” Lestrade nodded, looking at him, his hands resting on the intricately carved backing of a wooden chair. “After all, you're alone.”

“I'm flattered, really I am but I hate Christmas and you know I do.” Sherlock forced a smile, pouring Lestrade and himself a glass. “But do have a drink.” He pushed the DI's glass to him before sitting down. “Pardon the candles, I like things to have a...darker touch.” He added, putting the glass to his lips, taking a sip.

“No, no it's um...it's a good touch.” Lestrade agreed, looking around the room as he put the glass to his lips. “You're not seeing Mycroft this Christmas?” He questioned after swallowing down the burning liquid, wincing at the fire as it scorched his esophagus, but appreciating it all the same.

“Oh God don't even mention his name.” Sherlock grimaced, keeping his eyes averted.

“Sorry.” Lestrade too another sip. They remained silent for a long moment, finishing one drink before pouring another. Lestrade had stopped after his second glass, but Sherlock continued on, not much being said between the two.

John stood in the doorway, trying to get a read on the two. It seemed that Lestrade was...uncomfortable around Sherlock, but not in the typical intimidation type of way. No, there was something else behind it. Every time the detective looked at him, his blue eyes sparkling in the dim candle-light, the DI would shift, pulling at the collar of his clothes around his neck. He'd seen that behavior before, hell he'd even _been_ there before when he'd first met Mary.

“So what is the real reason you've come?” Sherlock questioned as he worked on his fourth or fifth glass, sucking them down rather quickly. His once pale cheeks holding a bit of color to them now, his once hard and focused eyes seeming less focused, more blurry.

“I just...wanted to see you and see how you were doing.” Lestrade shrugged, looking down at his almost completely empty glass.

“Really?” Sherlock smirked. “So you came to see me on Christmas Eve when the lights in my abode are down and I am surrounded by candle light? How lecherous for a married man.” He sucked back the rest of his drink. Lestrade laughed, shaking his head as he put his glass down, sitting back in his chair.

“Shut up, you know that's not what I meant.”

“Then why are you still here?” Sherlock questioned, cocking an eyebrow. “You know how I'm doing and I'm being utterly boring as sin and yet you just...sit there and look to me as if expecting it to change.” He poured himself another glass, switching to the brandy this time. “Are you and Karen having a rough time again?” He questioned putting the bottle down, looking at him concerned. Lestrade didn't respond, staring at the detective for a long moment, his lips pressed tight. He looked like a thief who'd been caught red handed and had been presented with a choice; to drop the goods and get shot or just get shot. Sighing he ran his fingers through his hair and forced a chuckle.

“Is it that god damn transparent?” He muttered. Sherlock stared at him, his face blank but soft.

“No, only to me.” He confided before picking up the glass again, putting it to his lips.

“We got into a fight, something bloody stupid.” He began, shaking his head. “Sometimes I don't think she gives a god damn what I think, or how I feel- I don't know, it is just me? Am I that much of a-a...blasted idiot?” He leaned forward. Sherlock looked at him, his eyebrows raising.

“Yes,” He nodded, agreeing. Lestrade stared at him, his lips parted as he watched the man across from him suck down another mouthful of brandy without explaination behind his answer. Sitting back he shook his head, scoffing. “It doesn't mean you deserve to be treated as she treats you though.” He added, swallowing the alcohol, freeing up his mouth. “Lestrade, listen, I know I don't know anything about...girls or...relationships because frankly they're pointless and the thought of procreation never tickled my fancy. But you try more than... _any_ man I know. You've given up solving _cases_ because she calls for you.” He leaned forward, resting on his elbows. _“_ Because of her murderers have walked free and she _still_ pins all of the bloody blame on you and you _let_ her because you _love_ her.” He shook his head, sitting back. “She's a greedy, pig hoofed bore with a stupid haircut and obviously blind if she can't see what she's got and she's losing it.”

“Hey, no need to insult her.” Lestrade muttered. He stared at the glass, feeling a slight bubble of pride at the detectives words, even if they did leave his lips drenched in alcohol.

“If I were a...female I would jump at the opportunity to marry you, just so I wouldn't run the risk of ending up with a tosser like...Thompson or...Bevriarti.” He grimaced.

“It's Bevarti, and why don't you look for a relationship?” He looked at Sherlock confused. “I mean you're...good looking, _great_ looking even. You could drive a woman wild.” The detective stopped, looking at Lestrade curiously, a smile coming to his lips.

“Women aren't my area.” He admitted. “I'm not good with a relationship. I'm too...I don't know... _controlling_ , or... _freaky_.” He laughed. Lestrade flushed a bit, hearing it from Sherlock's lips. He fidgeted, knowing that the detective had no idea what he was saying. He'd sucked down enough alcohol to wipe an elephants memory, and he was half tempted to...

“There's nothing wrong with freaky.” He replied, finishing off the little bit of alcohol in his cup, feeling the heat from it take his face.

“Not at all, but it's hard to find someone who will...well...” Sherlock trailed off, looking at him for a long moment, his eyes gliding up and down. John felt uncomfortable, the very look in his friends eyes stirring up a handful of awkward emotions, even though he knew that that look wasn't for him. Lestrade swallowed, looking Sherlock in the eyes. He didn't want to be knocked down, not by this...cocky bastard.

“I'm into freaky.” He replied, his voice wavering a bit. Sherlock's eyes went wide for a moment before sliding shut, a smirk coming across his face.

“Really?” He pushed himself to his feet, coming around the table. John looked at him shocked, his body hugged tight by his satin robes. He stood in front of Lestrade, staring down at him with his lusty eyes. The DI slid his chair back, looking up at him, feeling his body ignite. He was married for god's sake, and here he was feeling as if he were being drownt under this...genius's gaze. And Sherlock was the only man, the _only_ one who could make him feel this way. “I don't see what the problem is then.” Sherlock whispered before smiling. Laughing lightly he stepped back, turning his back on Lestrade. The DI looked after him confused and frustrated, a feeling of being mocked rushing through his veins. “I think if you were to go to Karen and tell her that she'll be more than happy to oblige.” He leaned against the door frame, his hand going to his forehead.

Lestrade pushed himself to his feet and walked over. Standing behind him he rested his hand on his shoulder. The detective froze, staring off across the room, a smile coming to his lips. He closed his eyes as Lestrade closed the gap between them, his hands going to his waist.

“Why the hell do you do this to me?” He whispered in the detectives ear. “I'm married, but everytime I'm around you, every _bloody_ _fucking_ time I just...”

“It must be my charm.” Sherlock laughed.

“What charm?” Lestrade questioned. “You're like a snake, one bite and you're fighting for your life.” The DI growled, his arms wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling him to him. Sherlock moaned, his eyes closing at the older man's lips found his ear. “Why the hell do I want you? I'm not gay, I'm married...I love Karen!” he shoved the detective away, grabbing his arm he pulled him back, looking into his eyes angrily. John went rigid, staring, but all Sherlock did was smile.

“Relationship's aren't my area, Lestrade.”

“It's Greg!” He snarled, pushing him against the wall, his lips slamming into his. Sherlock didn't fight against him, allowing his lips to be mashed and parted with angry teeth, his mouth probed with a violent tongue. John averted his eyes, feeling his face flush. A feeling of understanding came over him as the DI pulled the detective out of the corner, pushing him backwards through the doorway, across the living room, through the office and up the stairs, their lips rarely leaving each other.

“What are we doing, Greg?” Sherlock questioned, stopping him in the doorway, his arms shooting out to stop them.

“I'm putting you to bed and I'm leaving before I do something stupid, like cheat on my wife with an insatiable know-it-all.” He replied, grabbing the detective by the shoulders and turning him around, pushing him to the bed.

“You're leaving so soon?” Sherlock stopped at the edge of his bed, climbing in under his blankets. The fireplace was burning, heating the upstairs of the house with its warm flames. He looked at Lestrade, covering himself up with the blanket's, his eyes looking lonely. “Lay with me a while,” He pulled the blankets back, exposing the mattress. Lestrade opened his mouth, taking a deep breath to refuse when Sherlock spoke. “Please.”

The DI froze, staring at him for a long moment, weighing whether or not he should. His brain wanted him to, and so did his body and his heart, but he knew that deep down somewhere inside of him that he shouldn't, not when his wife was sitting at home alone. He bit his lip, standing over the bed for long moment, the feeling of conflict eating a way at him.

John stood in the doorway, watching. A feeling of familiarity rushing over him as he observed everything. Grabbing his jacket, Lestrade pulled it off and dropped it over a chair by the bed, then kicked his shoes off. He carefully climbed in, laying next to Sherlock. The detective smiled as he was joined and rolled over onto his side, his back facing the DI's. Once Lestrade was settled in, Sherlock pushed his butt back, closing the gap between the two, one hand reaching down, pulling at the sash at his robes.

Lestrade's breath hitched in his throat when he felt the round bountiful bottom of the detective pressed against his hips, his eyes sliding closed. He couldn't help himself, his hand shooting down to his hip. When his eyes opened again he was met with the sly, lusty eyes of the detective and a pair of luscious lips twisted up into a vicarious grin.

“Excited?” He questioned, his baritone voice sounding like the low moan of a summer breeze through a tunnel. He felt his trousers tighten, his heart racing in his chest as his fingertips swelled. He squeezed, causing the man in his arms to wince. _Man_. A _man_. Someone he shouldn't be having sexual relations with, but he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't help it. Not anymore. Not when every time he was around the detective over the course of months all he could imagine was shoving everything off his desk and pinning that insulting, sarcastic little ass down.

“Shut up.” He hissed, grabbing a fist full of his hair. He forced his lips against Sherlock's, pulling his hips back just enough to slam them against the thinner man's rump. Sherlock gasped, his mouth being filled with a tongue. John wanted to look away but found himself unable to. The motions of the DI's grinding hips beneath the blankets so vivid it was as if there weren't any coverings at all as he dug his swollen, clothed member into the exposed bottom of his best friend. He was surprised at their relationship. When Sherlock had mentioned that he was a virgin, and that Lestrade was a friend, he didn't know that the detective had come close to losing his virginity by said friend.

He shifted, feeling his blood boil a bit as he watched. Suddenly, Lestrade broke the kiss. Grabbing his shoulders he rolled him over, digging his shoulder into the mattress so his ass was sticking in the air just a bit. Lestrade ripped the blanket off, exposing the pale, flawless flesh, bound around the arms in a now rolled up robe, his butt exposed for all the world to see in the light of the fireplace and the moon.

Lestrade climbed over him, thrusting his clothed hips into his butt, grunting with each thrust. Sherlock moaned, his eyes closed as he was pounded against, his eyebrows furrowed tightly as his fingers curled around the sheets below him. Suddenly, Lestrade pulled himself off, leaving Sherlock to roll over, looking after him in confusion and disappointment.

“Where are you going?” He whimpered.

“Home. You're too bloody dangerous to be around when we're alone.” Lestrade growled, grabbing his jacket and shoes, rushing out the door, running through John. Sherlock looked after him a lost expression coming over his face. He swallowed before flopping back to the mattress, his arm laid over his eyes, the sound of the door downstairs opening and shutting. John looked after Greg as he vanished, then turned back to Sherlock. He felt pity, yet happy that that had happened.

He walked in and sat in the chair that Lestrade's jacket had been rested on and stared at Sherlock. He still had no idea what was going on, but he could only guess that he was -somehow- looking back on Sherlock's past. How long back, he didn't know and he couldn't say. He was just hoping that it would be over soon -not that he didn't like learning more about the ghost he lived with. He sat for a long while listening to the crackling of the fire, waiting. Suddenly, a movement caught his eye, past Sherlock and outside on the balcony.

Suddenly it hit him. Christmas Eve. John pushed himself to his feet, his eyes glued to the balcony. A figure slowly snuck in, pushing the door open. He was a tall man, 185 centimeters, 16stones of pure muscle. He stepped in wearing a ratty set of clothes, his hair dark, his beard damp. “No,” John stood up, but his words went unheard. The man stepped forward, keeping his steps silent.

Then it happened all so fast. The man hit him, waking the detective up. Sherlock gasped, his eyes snapping open in confusion in time to see the fireplace poker the attacker had grabbed swing down on him again. His hands snapped up, grabbing it, pulling it to a stop. The man growled, ripping it back, pulling him up off of the bed, stepping back. He spilled out of the bed, hitting the floor, but he refused to let go.

John stared, feeling powerless as they grappled, the drunk and disoriented detective struggled, attempting to rip the fireplace poker from his hands. Reaching back, the man grabbed one of the large marble decorative urns that sat in the corner of his room. Swinging he smashed Sherlock in the forehead. Sherlock faltered, falling backwards a bit, but he kept his hands wrapped around the poker. He swung again, this time, knocking him to the floor.

Pushing himself out from under him the man pushed himself to his feet, looking down at the detective. He dropped the urn to the floor and growled. “It's your fault,” he leaned down, grabbing him by the hair. He hauled him up before lugging him onto the bed. “I'll make you suffer for what you did.” He growled. Grabbing his robes from the floor he forced it around his head, tying it around his mouth. Sherlock groaned, struggling to keep his eyes open, his forehead bleeding and crushed in where he was hit. Taking the sash he forced the detectives hands above his head, tying his hands together.

Stepping back he turned, looking at one of the dressers. Grabbing an oil lamp he unscrewed the wick from the top and walked back to the foot of the bed, pouring it all over his feet before dropping it to the floor, the glass dome shattering once it hit. Sherlock squirmed a bit, choking through the thick cloth at his mouth as the man turned, grabbing a piece of wood from the fireplace. He dropped the piece of wood in the bed, the oil going up in flame.

The detectives eyes snapped open, sucking in a deep breath of oxygen. He attempted to scream but couldn't as the pain of the flames bubbling and boiling the flesh around his feet and ankles. John closed his eyes, looking away as the detective thrashed, his screams gargled and strangled.

Stepping away from the burning bed the man walked around to the side. With a devilish grin he leaned down, pressing his lips to the detectives forehead. “Burn in peace.” He whispered. Pulling away he made his way back out through the balcony where he'd come in, leaving the door open. John returned to Sherlock's side, staring as the fire slowly traveled up his legs. Sherlock kicked his legs, his eyes seeming to film over, a strangled scream escaping his lips, muffled by the robes.

The sight made John's stomach squirm, the need to vomit rising in his throat as the smell of burning flesh reached his nose. The flames charred the flesh as it traveled slowly up his legs and thighs. He sat down, the heat from the fire suffocating. He hung his head as his friend thrashed beside him, kicking his legs as if it were to help, trying desperately to get the fire off.

He closed his eyes, a couple of tears hitting his cheeks, his teeth grinding. It seemed to go on forever, seemingly hours of agony spanning over just a handful of minutes. Soon the room was engulfed, but as the wind blew in off of the ocean, the fire began to be choked out not long after Sherlock's body stopped moving.

The doctor sat there, his hand over his eyes as the fire died, the dampness clinging heavily to the cloth and walls. The wood and carpets smoldered as the sun started to rise, the smell of charred wood and human being assaulting his nostrils until it no longer registered. Looking up, he reached over, grabbing the charred hand of his friend, the room back to as it was when he moved in, everything back to normal except for the corpse in the bed.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” He muttered, his voice quivering. He turned in the chair just enough, resting his head on the mattress next to him, squeezing his hand tighter. He knew that what had happened was terrible, but to have witnessed it in person... “Jesus.” He muttered again, lifting his head, dragging his hand down across his face. He sat in silence, staring out the window as the sun rose. It wasn't until he felt the flexing of fingers that he looked up.

Sherlock horribly burnt face moved, reverting back to the smooth skin he remembered, his burnt body returning to normal. John swallowed hard, feeling his heart hurt as he watched, his thumb caressing the side of Sherlock's hand.

It took no more than 5 or 10 minutes for it all to be done and over with, Sherlock's eyelashes fluttering. Groaning he reached up, his fingertips pressing to his forehead as his eyes slid closed.

“God,” he muttered, his voice hoarse from the screaming he'd done. John squeezed his hand to reassure him he wasn't alone. With his eyes remaining mostly close, his head rolled to the side, looking at John. His eyebrows furrowed, but a small smile came to his lips. “hello.” John smiled, laughing as he shook his head, wiping the remnants of tears from his cheeks.

“You asshole.” He sat on the side of the bed.

“What did I do to deserve that?” Sherlock questioned, his bottom lip puffing out in a pout.

“For dying on me and making me watch.” The doctor snorted, even though he was glad it was all over.

“Oh, _that_. Yes well-” the sound of the door opening downstairs interrupted him, causing John to turn around and look at the door.

“John! Happy Christmas!” Harry's voice traveled through the house. He felt his blood run cold as he cussed.

“Shit I forgot it was Christmas.” He muttered. “I'll be right back, I'll tell them that now's not a good time-”

“No,” Sherlock squeezed his hand tight. “go spend Christmas with your family. I'm not all too entertaining right now anyway.” The detective replied in almost a demanding tone of voice. John looked at him for a long moment. Sherlock was right. He would need his rest after last night -God and John needed some rest as well. Nodding he pushed himself to his feet, hesitating to let go of his hand.

“Alright. You get your rest, I'll try to keep them relatively quiet.” He forced a smile. Reaching down he grabbed the blankets and pulled them up over the slightly burnt nude body of his friend. Pulling back he reluctantly slipped out of the bedroom and made his way downstairs.

Harry and Clara looked up, a pile of boxes piled in their arms. They smiled as he came in, leaving the office door ajar as he did. “Hey!” He greeted, holding his arms out. He hugged them, being careful of the gifts before moving to take them from their arms. “Sorry, Christmas kind of...crept up on me there, I didn't get a chance to put up a tree, or make food for dinner.” he looked at them apologetically, hoping that admitting that would get them in, open gifts and leave.

“Oh I know,” Harry teased, pulling her winter hat off. She looked exhausted and pale, her hair pulled up into a bun and clipped down with a bun clip. She had lost a lot of her hair due to the chemo, but even as she was bombarded with poison, she looked great. “We brought food over. Molly should be along shortly.” She replied, kicking her shoes off. She helped split the load with Clara, carrying half of gifts in to the dining area. She stopped, her jaw dropping. “I thought you said you didn't put up a bloody tree?” She called in.

“I didn-” John's eyebrows furrowed. “I didn't.” He made his way into the dining room then stopped. In the room just off of the dining room -leading to the bathroom on the first floor- there was a large tree, all done up with lights and tinsel and ornaments. Underneath was a small pile of gifts. He stared at it in awe, his mouth hanging open.

“Must be the ghost.” Harry teased, walking over, putting her gifts under the tree. John felt his heart flutter as he stared at it. It was beautiful -and definitely not his tree seeing how he'd tossed the one he and Mary used out. “Or your boyfriend.”

“Or both.” John smirked, putting his presents beneath the tree. “Oh, I got something for everyone.” He stood up, groaning as his back cracked. He was exhausted from staying awake all night, but the excitement he was suddenly overcome by made it seem tolerable. Turning he made his way back into the living room where he dropped his presents and grabbed the bags. Returning he stuffed them under the tree. “Make yourselves at home. You said Molly was going to be along?” He looked at them, holding his hand out to take their coats. Nodding Clara shrugged out of her coat and handed it to him, revealing a tiny white dress with a red sash. It was very festive, but John didn't care -surprisingly given how little it covered in the chest area and Clara was gorgeous.

“Yes, I hope you don't mind us inviting her without your permission.” She said. “Oh, shoot, the food.” She rubbed her forehead. “It's in the car.”

“I can get it.” John smiled, turning to hang her coat up.

“Are you sure?” She looked at him concerned, but he ignored it, nodding.

“Yep. Harry and I can handle it.” He smiled back at her. Nodding Harry followed him out of the house and to the car. Pulling open the back door he grabbed some of the food and carried it in, setting the table.

Molly arrived about a half an hour later with her assortment of gifts followed by Anderson and Sally. They ate before opening gifts, leaving the gifts marked _From Sherlock_ alone. No one questioned the mysterious presents that were under the tree until Anderson handed John his last gift, a cup of alcoholic egg nog.

“From _Sherlock_?” he turned, looking back at John as they lit the room with candles to keep the festive feeling. “Isn't that the name of that ghost that supposedly lives here?” He questioned, cocking an eyebrow as he held up the present.

“Ah, yeah, Hector is um...he sent them to me and I'll be sending him gifts as well. We'll open them together over Skype later on tonight.” John lied, although it wasn't too far from the truth. They _were_ from Hector, and they were going to open their gifts later on, but not over Skype.

“So is he your boyfriend or something?” Sally teased, drinking back her eggnog. Harry looked at him as if hoping he would say yes. He licked his lips, thinking about it, staring off past her. He wasn't gay. He'd been married, and he had no interest in men, but Sherlock was different. He made him feel different than he felt with other male friends. Like he didn't have to hide himself and how he really thought. He didn't have to hide behind a mask of false humility or manners because Sherlock was an asshole as well, and whenever John was a dick, Sherlock seemed to really enjoy it.

“No, we're just friends.” He replied, finishing is eggnog. They continued the conversation until about 8 or 9pm when Molly expressed she had to go home and feed the cat and Harry had to be to bed early for her Chemo in the morning. Helping them wrap their gifts up into bags so they could carry them out easier, he walked them to their car, bidding Harry, Clara, Molly, Anderson and Sally a good night, giving his sisters a hug and a kiss as they climbed into their car and pulled out, followed by Anderson and Sally.

Molly hung back, watching as they made their way for the road, vanishing into the line of trees. Turning she smiled and gave him a hug, holding him tight. “I had a good Christmas.” She said, her head resting on his shoulder. He hesitated for a moment, holding her back.

“Me too.” Pulling away she looked into his eyes. A look that was unreadable, but the sinking feeling in his gut that made his intestines swim knew what it was. Leaning forward she kissed him, wrapping her arms around him.

Closing his eyes, he wrapped his arms around her as well, kissing back, expecting to feel the excitement he'd felt before the day he had slept with her on Halloween, but all there was was a sour taste in his mouth and an urge to push her away. He didn't make any move to push her away though, waiting until it passed and she stepped back herself.

Giggling, her cheeks flushed, she pushed her hair behind her ear, her smile stretching. “Have...have a Happy Christmas, John.” She kissed his cheek. He forced a smile, returning a kiss to her cheek as well before reaching forward, pulling her car door open and holding it so she could get in.

“You too Molly. Drive safely.” He shut the door for her and stepped back, tucking his hands into his pockets as she started her car and backed up, making her way into the line of trees, vanishing from sight. Sighing, he turned, his hand going to cover his mouth. Making his way back inside he shut the door, dragging his fingers down across his lips. He felt horrible, because Molly still had feelings for him. And what about him? He doubted telling her that every time she kissed him all he tasted was donkey sweat.

“Good dinner?” A baritone voice sounded from the dining room. John's head snapped up, spotting the detective standing in the doorway, a glass of wine in his hand. He looked youthful, like he did before his death. His narrow cat like eyes staring at him from the candle-lit dining room. John swallowed back the swelling lump in his throat, feeling himself smolder under that gaze.

“Great dinner.” He replied, clearing his throat. He walked over grabbed a collection of presents from under the tree. “Where did all of this come from?” He questioned, looking from the tree to him, placing the gifts on the table.

“You remember that separate account you created for me?” Sherlock smiled, sitting on the edge of the table, staring at the dark liquid in the glass. “Where _my share_ of the money we get on our cases goes?”

“Ah, yeah.” John put the last few gifts on the table and pulled out a chair, picking at some of the food that was left on his plate.

“Well I ordered them online. They got here a couple of days ago when you were asleep, all I had to do was hide them.” He smiled. “Speaking of,” He sifted through the gifts, handing John his. “open them.” The doctor looked up at him confused for a moment before smiling, taking the gifts. He began tearing into them, the first one was a pack of night button up dress shirts. John whistled.

“Jesus Sherlock,” He pulled them from the plastic and held them up. “the material alone must have been friggin ridiculous.” He mused, looking them over.

“I figured seeing how you mentioned you wanted more dress up shirts, I'd get you some good quality ones you wouldn't have to wear underneath a jumper.” He smiled. “Next one.” He took the shirts from John's hands and folded them again, tucking them off to the side. He handed him another one. John hesitated, lifting it up. It had a bit of heft to it, one that made him look at it puzzled. Tearing into it he opened a box and held up a tanktop like garment and laughed.

“Sherlock is this...is this a bullet proof shirt?” He looked up at the detective.

“You almost got shot the last time we were on a case John, this time, if he does have a gun you won't die.” He smirked.

“Jesus.” He looked it over more carefully. In reality, he thought that it was pretty cool. He'd never owned a bullet proof shirt of any kind, even though he had always wanted one -just to say he had one, and now that he had an actual _use_ for one...

“Ok, final gift.” He pushed a smaller box forward, rubbing his hands together. John looked at him and nodded, taking the final present. He was curious as to what else he could have gotten. Tearing the paper off he stared at the gift inside in awe.

“You bought me a new mobile phone?” He looked at it in shock.

“Smartphone. 4G, 32gb.” Sherlock pointed at it. “That phone right there will connect to the internet _anywhere_ , and will make calls the same. Not to mention you don't have to worry about certain programs not working because it's not a finicky piece of refuse like an Apple product.” John stared at it, picking up. It was an extremely good phone, one he'd been looking at but had refused to buy it because his phone was perfectly fine and this phone was about 120GBP.

“Did you read that from the reviews?” John smiled, looking up at him. Sherlock nodded.

“I don't know what half of that even means. But I was researching it for a bit, and by research I mean I looked through your wishlist on your laptop.” He stood up, sliding off of the table.

“Hey, you have to open yours now.” John stopped him, grabbing his arm. Sherlock looked at him confused. Nodding he grabbed the chair and sat down. Smiling John pushed a small pile of gifts his way. The detective hesitated before taking one. He tore it open, unwrapping it. He paused, pulling out a wrapped up suit. Standing up he unfolded them, looking at the slacks, blazer and white button up shirt. It was modern, but sharp. Sherlock smiled, looking it over. “Like it?” John smiled, his arms crossed on the table.

“It's nice. Very professional looking.” He replied. Putting it down, folding it up nicely once more he put it off to the side and began opening another present. Inside was a chemistry set, bringing a large grin to the ghosts face. “You sure do know me well don't you?” He chuckled, looking at it.

“It'll beat you setting fire to my cleaning supplies.” John laughed, taking a sip of his wine. Sherlock laughed, nodding.

“I'll make good use of that.” He pushed it off to the side, putting it with his suit, then went to work, opening the final gift. Pulling the paper off of it he pause when he came face to face with a laptop box. “You bought me a crotchtop?”

“Yeah, so you can stay off of mine.” John sat back. Sherlock nodded, looking up at him, pushing it off to the side with his other gifts. Standing he made his way to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Brandy and a bottle of wine, placing it on the table. Sherlock poured John and himself a glass of wine and sat down, handing it to the doctor. Licking his lips, John smiled and lifted his glass.

“Here's to my first Christmas in a long time, not spent alone.” Sherlock lifted his glass up.

“And here is to my first Christmas feeling a little more than just a blur on a darkened timeline.” John clicked his glass to Sherlock's before taking a drink.

For a long while they drank in silence, watching as the candles on the table flickered. He couldn't help but think back on the similar occurrence he witnessed the night Sherlock lost his life. Sitting in a dark house, surrounded by burning candles with a glass of wine in his hand. Only it wasn't him. It wasn't until Sherlock poured their third glass that John broke the silence. “So um...that um...thing that happened last night.” He muttered, feeling the heat gather in his cheeks.

“Thing?” Sherlock looked at him curiously, drinking down his glass to pour himself some brandy, then remembered. “Oh, yes.” He muttered. “What of it?”

“Well...first off...what _was_ that?” John put his glass down, wanting to take it a bit slower now that he had hit that _slightly-more-than-buzzed_ feeling. The detective took a drink of his freshly poured brandy and nodded, putting the glass on the table.

“That was...a reflection on my past. I don't fully understand it myself. My guesses are when someone dies; murder, suicide, whatever there is a time when they are...dragged back to a time. Forced to experience what had happened to them like a permanent scar in time or something pompous like that.” He explained. “Like when someone is walking through a haunted house and they hear...a gunshot or something, for example. And then silence. More than likely that gunshot is a slip through of how that person died.”

“So how was it I could see everything so vividly?” John cocked an eyebrow.

“Because we shared bodies and minds. If I hadn't of possessed you, the most you would have seen was an occasional poltergeist and me thrashing about in bed as I burned. But because we spent so much time together -literally- you were able to see it because you're more in tune with my spiritual output than anyone else. Well...that's a guess. Really I have no idea.” He sat back in his chair.

“It makes sense.” John nodded, looking at his glass. More time slipped by in silence, a thought picking away at his mind. Licking his lips he looked up at the detective, taking in his pale flesh, his sharp eyes, his slender frame. He was youthful and beautiful as he had been the day he died. Before reliving his agony, he'd gotten haggard...exhausted and tired looking. John fidgeted in his seat a bit, staring at the soft lips as they caressed the side of the glass, picking up the moisture as they met the liquid inside. He swallowed hard. “What was your relationship with Greg Lestrade?” He averted his eyes. Sherlock looked at him confused, cocking an eyebrow.

“We were friends, nothing more. Why?”

“No reason just...” He bit at his lip, avoiding eye contact with him as much as possible. “You two seemed to be more.” Sherlock laughed, shaking his head.

“God no. Greg was married.” He picked his glass up, taking another drink. “Besides, he wasn't gay.”

“Yeah or so I noticed.” John muttered. He thought back to the DI, how adamant he was and how eager he was to just...push himself past that threshold. How close he'd actually come to making Sherlock his. Picking up his glass he took a drink of his wine, imagining the rough thrust of Lestrade's hips against Sherlock's perfectly round buttock's. He bit his lip a bit, staring at the detective, feeling his member stir a bit under the memory.

“Besides, even if he had been I'm not the most...desirable man in the world.” He snorted, unbuttoning a couple of his upper buttons, flashing off his long, soft smooth looking neck. John stared at him, feeling his blood boil. He fidgeted, feeling a rush of anger come over him as he realized just how irresistible Lestrade had seen him in this light. “My appearance even gives you an edge with the ladies.” He joked, finishing his drink.

Suddenly John stood in a flurry, slapping the wine glass out of the ghosts hands. Sherlock turned, looking at him in shock as John leaned down, pulling the chair away from the table, turning it to face him. Not wanting to get stuck in a confrontation sitting down, Sherlock attempted to push himself to his feet, only to end up with John's arms wrapped tightly around him, a pair of lips wrapping angrilly around the side of his neck. “John?” Sherlock gasped, feeling a jolt of electricity surge from the contact, rushing down his shoulder and chest. His eyes slid shut as his bottom found the edge of the table.

“Why do you do this to me?” John questioned, his voice husky as he pulled his face away, his hands going to the front of Sherlock's shirt. Grabbing the button's he began to undo them. When he began struggling the third button down he growled and grabbed either side of the opening of the shirt and just pulled, ripping the buttons clean off. The detective's breath hitched in his throat as his eyes dropped to his now exposed chest and stomach, the sound of buttons hitting the hard wood floor like hail on the roof.

Not hesitating a moment John leaned down, wrapping his mouth around one of the ghosts nipples, sucking hungrily at it, teeth plucking at it sending a wave of pleasure through his dead friend. Sherlock's jaw dropped, his eyebrows knitting in the middle as it ricocheted through his chest, hitting every nerve and reverberating through his stomach to his groin. His legs quivered as he dug his palms into the table to steady himself, not wanting to fall backwards into the lit candle and catch the house on fire.

Pulling his head away John grabbed the ghosts trousers, ripping them down to his knees finding that he didn't have a pair of pants on. He stared at it for a long time, trying to calm himself a little before he went too far. After all, Sherlock wasn't like Mary.

When Mary and himself got together, she'd had previous boyfriends -as he had had previous girlfriends. Neither of them were virgins when they slept with each other the first time, so it didn't take much preparation for her to take him full force. Sherlock on the other hand...

He looked up at Sherlock, carefully reaching out. He rested his hands on his upper thighs, feeling the muscles beneath his palms jump and tighten as he did. He felt his own member swell up painfully, throbbing as he bit the inside of his lip.

The detective looked at him nervously, his normally cat like eyes large, although his pupils were dilated, his heart pounding visibly in his chest.

Reaching down, John grabbed his own shirt, pulling it up and over his head, allowing the cold air to hit his skin with a pleasureable bite. He stopped for a moment, looking over the ghosts body, noting his breathing had picked up, his own member swelling at the tip a bit. John licked his lips and reached down, pushing his trousers down, wasting no time to climb out of them, leaving them in a bunched up mess on the floor.

Lifting his leg he pushed his foot into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers which were still hanging around his legs mid-calf and shoved them to the floor, pulling them off his ankles as he closed the gap between their bodies. “Why do you do this to me?” John asked again, his voice softer now. He grabbed Sherlock's hips, pressing his own groin into the ghosts, feeling his hips become blanketed in first cold, then extraordinary heat. Sherlock inhaled sharply, a light whimper at the back of his throat which only succeeded in making John harder. “I was married.” John swallowed, staring over the ghosts beautiful candle-lit features. “I was married, but everytime I'm around you, every _bloody_ _fucking_ time I just...” Sherlock looked at John, a slight look of confusion in his eyes that began to be clouded with clarity and arousal.

“It must be my charm.” He replied. The words sent a thick wall of fire coursing through John that made his stomach swell and swim.

“What charm?” John questioned, now reciting everything Lestrade had said Christmas Eve 80 something years ago. The night that Sherlock died. “You're like a snake, one bite and you're fighting for your life.” He wrapped his arms around the ghost, pulling himself onto him. He sank his face into his neck, biting at his flesh almost rabidly. Sherlock cried out lightly, attempting to close his legs but only finding John's hips. “Why the hell do I want you?” John growled, leaning up to find his ear, biting at it, grinding his hips against Sherlock's, causing the detective's hips to buck up a bit. “I'm not gay, I was married...I love Mary!”

“I'm sorry!” Sherlock whimpered, his eyes closing as all of the fuzzy details he never remembered before came rushing back to him. He grit his teeth against it all. He wasn't alone on Christmas Eve, he had someone but he chased him away. Lestrade had loved him, just as John did.

John pulled back, looking at the detective's face, feeling horrible as a look of almost childish fear came over the ghosts face, causing him to pale almost inhumanly. “Don't let me die again John.” He whimpered. John's heart stopped in his chest, freezing in place. The reason Sherlock was able to carry on, to take any sort of pride in his afterlife was the thought that he was murdered while alone because no one wanted to be with him, but knowing now that he had someone who loved him...someone who was willing to cheat on his wife with him...

Grabbing the table John pushed Sherlock back, knocking the candle behind him out of the way, causing it to go out as it bounced against the table. He climbed over him, pulling Sherlock's legs up around his waist. He leaned down, mashing his lips against the detective's desperately, his teeth picking at his lips, encouraging them gently to open. When Sherlock obliged, his tongue rushed in, wrapping around the ghosts.

“You'll never die again as long as I live.” John panted, breaking the kiss, watching his eyes glisten like jewels in the remaining candle-light. Reaching down he carefully shifted himself, using some of his own precum to lube himself up -even though he knew it probably wouldn't be enough. Grabbing the base of his shaft he kept his eyes on Sherlock's face as he pushed himself to the ghosts entrance. Leaning down he kissed him again as he pushed in carefully, moving in slowly before pulling out just a bit, working bit by bit to enter him.

Sherlock groaned as he felt himself part, fire shooting up through his hips as an unpleasant but intense feeling of being torn hit him. Reaching up he grabbed John's sides, breaking the kiss. His eyes dropped down the front of the doctor, his legs twitching as he willed himself to remain relaxed -not wanting to give him any troubles.

“Oh God,” He let his head fall backwards again, his eyes clenching tight. He arched a bit, feeling his insides be pushed aside as he was penetrated. “Are you in yet?” He whimpered through clenched teeth.

“Halfway.” John panted, taking a break. He rubbed Sherlock's hip, encouraging him to move his bottom just a little, pulling it down onto him.

“ _Halfway.”_ He scoffed, feeling all of the blood rush to his member, a burning sensation making his toes curl. “How big are you for Christ's sake?”

“9 inches hard.” John chuckled, giving a quick thrust in. Sherlock yelped, squirming, a couple tears coming to his eyes. John moaned, feeling his ass tighten around him. “Sorry, sorry I'm not used to pacing myself like this.” He panted.

“Then don't!” the ghost growled. “Just get on with it.” John stared at him shocked, wondering just what it was doing to him.

“But...it's hurting you just going this slow. I have about two inches to go before I'm in and you're already in pain.” He replied, rocking his hips just a bit to keep the sensation going between them.

“The faster you get it on, the faster it'll feel good, right?” He panted through clenched teeth, his nipples hard. His hands clutched down his body, fingernails sinking into his stomach and groin.

“I don't want to hurt you.” John pressed.

“John, I burned alive, I spent a year smashing my head off of a cement wall until I died again.” He hissed, looking at the doctor with hard eyes. “Move!”

John didn't need much more than that. He felt his heart leap, his blood racing through his veins. Grabbing the table on either side of the detective's head he thrust in. His movement pushing the ghost across the table a bit, winning a scream from his lips. Reaching down with his right hand he grabbed Sherlock's hip to steady him in place, thrusting into him the rest of the way, winning another strangled cry.

The ghost was as tight as a clenched fist, and his flesh was cold before turning to a burning sensation. It was equally painful yet arousing, making it impossible for the doctor to remain still for long.

Pulling out he slammed back in, feeling all of his head pool to the places where their bodies touched. And with every thrust won a scream from the man beneath him, sending chills up his spine that were smothered by an occasional brush of a hand as Sherlock clutched wildly for him, his back arching.

He was a screamer. Oh God that was everything he'd ever wanted in a sex partner. Mary was the loudest he'd ever had, and still all she did was moan -which was fine. But this...hearing Sherlock scream beneath him and choke as he squeezed his legs around his waist tight. It appealed to his sadistic side; his dark side, a side he never had the honors of satisfying.

“Am I hurting you?” He asked, his voice thick with lust but still genuine and concerned.

“Yes.” Sherlock forced, his lungs heaving as he panted. “Don't stop.”

That was it.

That was all he needed.

Grabbing his hips, John pulled out almost all the way before slamming himself in as deep as he could, his left hand going up to cover the ghosts mouth before he could scream. He rolled his hips, forcing the detective's head back to expose his Adam's apple. Leaning down he wrapped his lips around it, pulling out again, slamming back in. He bit and sucked at his throat, forcing himself in as hard as he could, using his hand to prevent the ghost from curling in on himself.

He listened to the loud cries underneath him with every hard thrust. His stomach screamed for him to stop as it all pooled. He'd prided himself on being a tender lover for so long, but now what was he? Some...sex starved animal getting off on hearing his partner scream?

_That's exactly what you are, and he's letting you._

He froze for a second, but not for long, digging himself back in as deep as he could. _He's your little masochist to your sadist just as you are his partner in crime. He's finally found someone to top him, and here you are soaking up every scream and moan like a sponge._ He bit his lip, slowing down a bit, his eyebrows furrowing as a sick feeling sank into his stomach, quickly drowning out the pleasure he was feeling with fear. _Better lift your hand to make sure it's still sex and not rape_.

Lifting his hand he waited. Waited for Sherlock to scream for him to stop so he'd have a reason to feel disgusting about what he was doing. With a heavy, heaving pant Sherlock tilted his head back, tears rushing down his cheeks he whimpered. “Stop...” John felt his heart plummet into his stomach, his throat tighten in on itself. He watched as sherlock licked his lips and swallowed, his teeth grating his bottom lip, eyes clenched tight. “Dont...stop, don't.”

The doctor froze, all of the guilt he'd felt shattering like glass. His lust and confidence returning like a tidal wave. God he really _was_ fucked up, and God did he _love it._

Growling he forced his hand back over Sherlock's mouth, picking up the pace, slamming into him hard enough to make the table beneath them creak. Sherlock's scream came out muffled into his palm with every thrust.

Every re-entrance sent fire up through the pit of his stomach, causing his cock to pulse like he'd never felt before. His legs shook as the usually dead heart in his chest raced painfully in his throat. With every thrust his mind went blank and fuzzy. No thoughts ran through his mind but the searing pain and orgasmic pleasure that made his arms quiver, his nails digging into the hard wood beneath his butt.

Why had he avoided this in life? Why did he never pursue to be taken like this when he was alive and it mattered? Why did he never allow himself the pleasure of being pounded into, listening to his partner growl as his teeth grated across the front of his throat like a hungry beast, or his lips to suck hungrily at his clavicle as every nerve in his body pulsed and throbbed and his brain shut out everything but him.

No intelligent thought ran through his mind as John pulled out of him, slamming back in, his shaft prodding against his sweet spot making his toes curl and his legs and hips want to follow suit. All that ran through his mind were little white words, painted on a black canvas that read _Fuck me_ before flashing out in a blanket of white with each new thrust.

Would it have felt like this with Lestrade? Would he have felt this good with Irene? No, he knew what kind of lover Lestrade was. While he was gruff on the outside, inside he was a sweet and serene lover, he would never hurt his partner no matter how his partner begged. And Irene...

Sherlock wanted this penetration. This...violation of his personal being. This...intrusion on his internal being that would screw up all of his thought process like a television in a solar flare. Irene couldn't physically grant him that.

But John. John wasn't like Lestrade. He was soft and friendly on the outside, off-putting his gruffness, but he could see it. Inside of his eyes he was a caged animal, every bit as dangerous as the danger he loved. That was what Sherlock wanted. Someone who -in the end- proved to be more dangerous but better in check and self restraint than himself. That was -after all- one reason he loved his detective work. The constant brush with danger. The dance they forgo when skirting around a psychopath or madman. The violence that broke out giving him a reason to release any and all pent up anger he'd felt while butting heads with him. Sherlock was drawn to dangerous situations, just as John was. They loved the fight between good and bad. They loved to be hurt, and to hurt others.

He whimpered as his stomach began to hurt, his hips sore from the thrusts. Suddenly the feeling of John's hand around his member caught his attention. He purred lightly as the doctor put in a couple of strokes, but bit them back when he felt his shaft be pinched shut at the base. He squirmed as the thrusts came faster, replacing roughness with speed, but it was the same. Pain ruptured through him, pleasure drownt it out making his head swim.

He felt a little bit of drool drip between John's fingers, racing down his cheek to mingle with the tears that chose the same path. He couldn't focus on anything, the only thought that ran through his mind was his voice, begging John to fuck him harder. To not hold back. That was when he felt it. The swelling in his pelvis, the fire coursing through his loins. His eyes opened as he looked down at John, his feet cramping up as his toes remained curled, the muscles up the backs of his calves locking up painfully.

He whimpered, feeling John's balls hit his rump with every thrust. The doctor sped up, pounding in harder, giving Sherlock that nice spark of pain that he loved again. One that made the back of his head swell and his groin melt. He stared at the ceiling, his cries and screams no longer registering in his mind with each violent thrust.

Reaching down he dragged his hand across his own swollen sack only to find how swollen they actually were. He rubbed them, moaning, feeling like they were going to explode at any moment. He wanted nothing more than for them to be emptied. He wanted the pooling burn in his shaft to subside and spill out; he wanted relief.

Digging his heels into the table he hissed into the palm of John's hand, trying desperately to plead for him to let him go. His words remained smothered, putting a desperate arousal speeding through his veins. Lifting his butt he slammed himself down against John, making the doctor growl. Removing his hand from his mouth he gave the ghost a quick swat across the ass, making him cry out. Immediately Sherlock started pleading, his voice deep and saturated in lust.

“Please let me come.” He begged.

“Oh no,” John panted, digging himself in deeper, rolling his hips to give each thrust new depth and angle, driving the ghost wild.

“Why?” He cried out.

“Naughty whores don't get to come before me.” John replied with an innocent smile, but it was the fire in his eyes that gave away his true feelings.

The name hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks, his cock throbbing and pulsing faster. He felt like it was going to split down the middle and tear to pieces. His leg began to bounce as he dug his toes into the table. He groaned pathetically, arching his back, his hips shaking as his ass clenched tightly around John's pulsing member. If he had been a lousy aim and missed his prostate with almost every thrust, he was sure he wouldn't be left in this quivering mess, but John had been the utmost in accuracy, and every hit made Sherlock just that much more insane.

John picked back up, doing short, shallow thrusts, pounding directly into his prostate. That right there would have been enough to push Sherlock over the edge, sending him into an orgasming frenzy, but with John's hand clenched around the base of his cock, there was no way even a little could get through.

“Sweet God John, have mercy!” He whimpered, slamming his palm into the table, his head tilting back as his back arched involuntarily.

“We have about an hour to go.” John cooed, a wicked grin coming to his face. Sherlock sputtered a bit, his fingers shaking as he imagined being pounded like this for an hour more -especially when he didn't even know how long they'd been at it already.

“No, no no.” He cried. Grabbing Sherlock's hip once more, John smirked, thrusting as fast as he could while retaining the same level of hardness, making it as rough as he could, forcing Sherlock's ass off the table with each thrust. The ghost screamed, his hands going to his hair. Suddenly, with a grunt from the doctor, the detective was filled with a glorious heat that extinguished the fire inside of him. His eyes snapped open as the pressure from around his shaft vanished, the hand squeezing it firmly and rubbing him quickly, jerking him off. He cried out, his hand going to his own mouth as his heel pounded against the table from his bouncing leg as tidal wave after tidal wave of heat and pleasure rushed over him, sending a shot of thick, liquid up his stomach and chest in a harsh, high pressured stream.

He bit his lip, dropping his hand to grab the side of the table as he was filled and his own spilled out over him, his vision turning white. His ears began ringing, drowning out his inability to keep quiet. Suddenly a pair of lips claimed his, sucking at his tongue gently. Sherlock reached up, wrapping his arms around John tightly, clinging to him as the waves began to dissipate, the pleasure leaving, leaving nothing more but the throbbing, swollen remnants that were pounded so mercilessly.

John returned the embrace, holding him tight, kissing him gently and passionately. He laid like that for a while, holding Sherlock on his arms, their lips intertwined, their eyes closed. Finally, John shifted, starting to pull out. Sherlock's hips twitched, bucking as he moaned on exit. Once out, John watched as Sherlock squirmed beneath him.

“I think...we've had quite an eventful Christmas.” John laughed lightly, running his hands up and down Sherlock's sides. The ghosts eyes opened, staring down at him. He nodded. Digging his elbows into the table he attempted to sit up. A shot of pain shot up through him, making his fall backwards against the table.

“Oh God...” he muttered as it turned to pleasure. Climbing off John looked at him concerned.

“Will you be ok?” He asked, leaning over, blowing out the remaining candles on the table, feeling good but even more tired than he did before.

“I'll be fine.” He muttered. “Just...you can head up to bed, I'll be there shortly.” The rest of the candles in the house went out. John looked around confused, but nodded, smiling.

“See you in a bit.” He leaned over, kissing him. Grabbing his clothes off of the floor he grabbed Sherlock's and his gifts, bringing them upstairs with him. Making his way to the bedroom he put all of the gifts on the dresser and put his clothes in his hamper. When he turned to the bed he saw Sherlock already laying there, curled up. Smiling John walked around to his side of the bed and crawled in, wrapping his arms around him tightly, burying his face in Sherlock's neck. That's what he loved about the detective. He was all leg so it made spooning with him seem as if they were relatively the same height -even though the ghost towered over him.

“I love you.” Sherlock muttered, already half asleep. John stared at him for a long moment before kissing his shoulder.

“I love you too, Sherlock.” He squeezed his arms around him tight, closing his eyes. “Happy Christmas”

“Happy...Christmas...” In a matter of seconds, Sherlock was out like a light, John not too far behind.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are about to get back into the swing of things after the Holidays. But when John's first case is locating his sister Harry he's compelled to put everything aside. That is, until the mysterious Jim Moriarty shows up at his doorstep.

**Chapter 16**

 

 

John woke up around noon, stretching as the need to urinate took over. Looking over he smiled, seeing Sherlock curling up beside him. He couldn't believe that he was there, staring at a male ghost that he had _sex_ with on his dining room _table_ on _Christmas night_. Not only did he have sex with him, but it had been one of the most amazing sessions he'd ever been engaged in. Biting his lip he squirmed a bit. Just thinking about it excited him -which that excitement wasn't very good given his bladder was about to burst.

Leaning in he gave him a kiss. His lips caressed the soft lips of the very man he thought would have been the last person in the world he'd fall in love with. Pulling out from under the blankets he made his way to the bathroom, unable to delay it any longer. Grabbing the toilet lid he aimed and released, sighing happily.

“Did I miss anything?” Sherlock's voice echoed through the bathroom, catching John's attention by sending a chill up his spine.

“Nope, just woke up.” John replied, shaking it before flushing and putting the lid down -to keep the cat from drinking out of the toilet. Sometimes he just didn't know what to do with her.

“Mm,” He grunted, running his fingers through his hair.

“You ok?” John turned looking at him, his eyes scaling up and down the ghosts body. He was gorgeous. Thin, light on the muscle side. He looked like a model, not some...recluse super detective.

“My ass hurts.” Sherlock muttered, walking to him stiffly. John smiled as he leaned against the counter. Reaching forward he pulled the detective close, allowing the heat their bodies were giving off to volley back and forth.

“I can fix that for you if you'd like.” He replied slyly, grabbing a couple large handfuls and squeezing. Sherlock leaned forward, pressing himself against John completely, his teeth clenching around his bottom lip. His eyes slid close as John worked his fingers to his entrance, rubbing it gently.

“Before breakfast John?” He looked at him seriously, almost disapprovingly, but the tone in his voice told a different story. One that wanted John to do what he wanted. The doctor laughed and grabbed his upper arms, pushing him away a bit roughly. Sherlock stumbled a bit but caught himself. A lusty look in his eye.

“Ok then, breakfast, check what's on the calendar for today, then...quick shag?”

“Don't tell me you're one of those men who have an insatiable appetite for intercourse.” Sherlock groaned, but the twitch at the corner of his lips was enough to tell John that it was playful.

“I have a healthy appetite for sex, it's being with you that makes it insatiable.” John retorted, leaning up, kissing his neck. Sherlock moaned, rubbing his hands down across his shoulders.

“Well then, if I'm the cause of blame, then breakfast, calendar and shag sounds perfect.” He smirked before stepping out of John's arms, making his way for the bathroom door. John watched him walk away, feeling his hunger increase, causing him to bite at his lip as Sherlock opened the door and slid out. Once out of sight John frowned, reaching down, dragging his hand across his half stiff member.

“Damn.” He made his way into bedroom again and grabbed a pair of pants, then stopped when he noticed something among his presents that he didn't see the night before. Reaching into the collection of shirts Sherlock got for him, he pulled out a small package of underwear. In them was the most vibrant pair of red pants he'd seen. He opened them and unrolled them, looking at them curiously, then stopped when he saw that they weren't boxers but briefs. His cheeks turned red as he stared at them. He usually wore boxers, or boxer briefs but underpants?

Biting his lip he leaned down, sliding his legs into the holes and pulled they up. They were snug but comfortable, and they way they cradled his package was like no other. “You have an eye for detail don't you Mr. Holmes.” He smiled, rubbing himself through the soft fabric of the underpants, the friction feeling great as it rubbed against the head of his cock. Dropping his hand -wanting to save his sexual energy for Sherlock after breakfast- he grabbed his pants and slid them on, grimacing as his jeans crushed his erection.

Grabbing a t-shirt out of his dresser he slipped it on and made his way out of the bedroom, walking stiffly. It was a bit of a challenge climbing down the stairs, but it was something he was used to -he'd had erections a lot when he was first married to Mary as well. Walking through the office -dodging the cat as she tried to weave in and out of his legs for attention- he made his way across the living room only to stop and stare at the ghost with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

Sherlock turned, looking at him. He was dressed in the new outfit that John got him for Christmas. The tight slacks folding at all of the right places, framing his full ass and pulled taut over his package. Then the blazer...pulled tightly over his broad chest, the undershirt buttons looking like they were about to pop off at any moment. He dragged his tongue over his lips, looking at his tall frame as he adjusted the cuff buttons then pulled blazer down. “Good God what have I done?” John muttered. Sherlock looked at him curiously, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Excuse me?”

“What have I done?” John repeated himself. “I bought you that outfit and now look at you.” He tossed his hand up, motioning to him. Sherlock shifted, looking down at himself.

“Does it look bad?” He cocked his head to the side a bit, turning to show him the back of the outfit. John winced as his pants got tighter, digging his teeth into his bottom lip.

“God no.” He rubbed himself a little.

“Then why-” Sherlock stopped looking at him confused before noticing John's hand, wrapped firmly around his erection that was obvious through his pants. “oh,” He nodded, his voice soft. “you look like you're about to pop right out there.” He smirked, stepping forward. His graceful steps were magnified in his new outfit, driving John crazy. “Go sit down,” He smiled, running a finger down the front of John's chest. “I'll get you breakfast.” Stepping back he made his way for the kitchen once more. John stared after him, his fingers flexing as he watched.

Taking a deep breath he did as the ghost said and took a seat, having to lower himself down slowly so he wouldn't sit on anything or crush his cock in his pants. Sherlock worked quickly, making him an omelet and pouring him a cup of coffee.

“Thank you.” John smiled, rubbing his hands together as the plate was put on the table in front of him. Taking his coffee he took a sip of that first, enjoying the warmth of it as it traveled down his throat. Suddenly, a tugging at his pants startled him, making him push himself back in his chair. “What the-” He stopped when Sherlock pulled him out of his cloth encasing, putting him in his mouth. John's jaw dropped as the feeling of the detective's tongue swirling around the heave of his swollen member sent electricity up through his hips. “Oh...oh God thank you.” He tilted his head back, biting his lip.

Sherlock lowered his head down, sucking half of it into his mouth before pulling his head back, sucking on his shaft hard. John's hips bucked a bit, his hands going to the ghosts hair. He couldn't even remember the last time he had a blow job. Was it some time in university?

Sherlock hummed, sending a vibration up his shaft as he flicked his tongue across the slit. And just like that, John didn't care when the last time he'd had a blow job was.

Biting his lip he grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's hair, staring down at him as he sucked, his lips pinching the halfway mark as his hand worked on releasing his balls from his pants. His breathing picked up, running his fingers through his lovers hair as he watched. This was about as far as the last woman -who might just of been Mary- could get, but already he was doing so much more.

Sherlock bobbed his head up and down, sucking hard. He ran his tongue around the head of his cock, gently dragging his teeth up his shaft. His eyes shot up, connecting with John's defiantly. The doctor was about to question it when all of a sudden his head plunged down, his cock vanishing, being swallowed down the back of his throat. John gasped, spreading his legs, one leg lifting off of the floor. Somehow this scrawny dead man sucked a 9 inch long, 1 and a half inch diameter monster dick -using Mary's words, not his own- down that narrow throat of his.

“Sweet mother of Jesus Christ Sherlock.” He laughed, moaning deeply. His fingers tightened in his hair, holding his head in place. Sherlock continued, managing to -somehow- massage his shaft with his tongue while sucking him down the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, humming, running his teeth along the base of his shaft. John tilted his head back, his hips jerking upwards against his will. The detective choked a bit, causing John to wince, looking down at him. “Sorry.” He apologized.

The detective's eyes opened, looking up at his lover with lusty eyes, ones that begged for more. John bit his bottom lip, not sure if he would be allowed to do it or not. Carefully he started thrusting his hips up, causing his lovers eyes to slide shut again as his cock slipped in and out of his throat visibly from the outside. John moaned, running his fingers through his hair. He enjoyed it, the feeling of Sherlock's throat closing around his cock, swallowing him back in when he thrust in.

He went in deeper, watching Sherlock's eyes clench tightly when his nose met with John's hips. He moaned, starting to speed up, his fingers tight around his hair as he felt the detective's pale fingers dance around his balls, massaging them and pinching them lightly. He licked his lips, bucking up into his face, forcing himself down his throat. Sherlock grunted but didn't pull away, allowing the roughness.

_What did he ever do to deserve ending up with such a wonderful and sexually capable partner?_ John couldn't help but ask himself as he bucked back into his throat, starting to thrust faster. He was getting rather rough with him, but Sherlock didn't pull away or make any move to stop him. All he did was keep his eyes closed, sucking him back in, moaning as John entered and exited his throat.

Biting his lip, john let his head fall backwards as it all accumulated too quickly. His cock twitched, sending a gush of come down the back of the detective's throat. Sherlock worked quickly to swallow it all so he wouldn't choke -or drown- in it. He pulled his head back, his mouth open as he pulled John's quickly flaccid member out. His mouth was full of it, stringing between his tongue and his lips and teeth.

John stared down at him, unable to look away. He was beautiful like this, his eyes all misty, his cheeks red, his mouth full of his seed. He swallowed hard and brushed his lovers hair out of his face, watching as some of it dribbled down his chin. “Sorry.” He apologized again.

Smiling Sherlock pulled away and pushed himself to his feet, swallowing the last little bit he'd caught in his mouth. Leaning down he cupped John's face, kissing him deeply.

“There's no need to apologize.” He replied, his voice sounding hoarse. “I'm glad to do it for you. Now, you should eat.” He pulled away and went to start picking up the mess that wasn't picked up the night before. John stared after him as he worked and nodded. Stuffing himself back into his pants he zipped himself back up, feeling much better than he did before he sat down.

Turning he grabbed his laptop, opening it up and turning it on. He worked at his omelet as he waited for his computer to boot up, a bit sad that his food was a bit cold, but happy that the reason was because he was having a sexy moment with his best friend -and lover.

“I saw the um...underpants.” John said, mouth full of egg as he attempted to make conversation.

“I noticed that,” Sherlock smirked, looking back at him. “I hope they're not uncomfortable.” He replied.

“No, they're perfect.” John shook his head, cutting himself another bite before stuffing it into his mouth.

“And I saw the underpants you bought me.” Sherlock turned, unzipping his pants, flashing off a set of similar underpants, only this time white and black with little bumble bees. “Bees?”

“They were a gag gift.” John admitted, typing in the password for his laptop before looking at the ghost.

“Oh, well they're comfortable.” Sherlock shrugged, continuing with the cleaning. Suddenly John's phone went off, making him jump. Standing he quickly made his way to his coat in the living room. Grabbing it he stuck his hand in the pocket and pulled out his cellphone, looking at the number.

“Hi Clara, how's Har-” He stopped, his eyebrows knitting as the sound of his sister-in-law's sobs reached him through the phone. “Clara, what's wrong?”

“Oh John,” She sobbed. “Harry and I got into an argument last night when we got home and she left. I didn't bother to go out after her because I thought she was just going out to drink like usual and that she would be back by morning, but when I woke up she wasn't here.” She sniffled.

“She didn't mention where she was going?” John questioned, feeling a bit panicked himself.

“No, she won't even answer her cell. John please, I don't know what to do, and I know that you're good at finding people. Please, please help me find your sister, I...I don't know how much it'll cost to pay you-”

“Clara, no you're not paying me to find Harry. Just...hang tight ok? I'll go out and I'll find her just...please keep calm. I promise I'll find her and I'll get her back. Ok?” He chewed his lip, flexing his fingers by his side, waiting for some confirmation that she heard him. “Clara, do you understand?”

“Yes,” She sobbed. “I understand. Thank you, thank you so much.” She hung up. John dragged his hand down his face, his heart racing in panic.

“Sherlock, get ready, Harry's gone missing.” He called into the other room. Slipping his shoes on he grabbed his coat and turned. Grabbing the door he pulled it open and stopped. On the other side was a man. Pale with short dark hair, standing about 5'8”. He smiled charismatically at him, but there was a darkness in his eyes.

“Hello,” He greeted, his grin twisting almost sadistically. “My name is James. James Moriarty. My friends call me Jim.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim Moriarty shows up, telling Sherlock and John that he has a favour he wants them to do for him. At the mention of it's illegal status, John attempts to refuse but has his mind made up when Moriarty promises the death of his sister. After successfully getting Sherlock and John mad at each other, the ghost can't help but question whether or not John is taking him seriously; so he makes him.

**Chapter 17**

 

 

“I have a little problem I need help with.” The dark haired man said, smiling from the couch. John poured him a cup of tea, placing it on a small fold out coffee tray in front of him and placed the sugar and a bit of cream in front of him -incase he wanted it. “I mean, not that _I_ would have any trouble doing it myself.” He smiled, pointing to himself as he rolled forward, grabbing his tea.

He was dressed in a white suit, his hair combed nicely. But although he looked sharp and posh, he had animalistic characteristics. Like hunching over, sitting with his elbows on his knees, lingering over the tea cup that was offered him. He was like a panther ready to pounce and go in for the kill.

Sherlock sat on the arm of John's chair as the doctor took a seat. John knew that this man, as smart as he seemed wouldn't believe in anything as preposterous as ghosts, so they didn't bother hiding him.

“If you can do it yourself, why do you need me?” John questioned.

“Get someone elses hands dirty.” Sherlock muttered, his arms crossed.

“Rude.” Moriarty looked at him, taking a sip of his tea. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed confused. John's eyebrows furrowed as well as he stared at the man.

“Excuse me?” He pretended Sherlock wasn't there.

“Oh come on, like you can't see him.” the man smirked at him from over the cup. “With his high cheekbones and how close he sticks to you.” He took another drink then put the cup down. “Although no one knows of this...pale skinned roommate of yours.” He shifted, linking his fingers in his lap. “But according to description and location, this must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” His jaw dropped, an exaggerated look of surprise coming to his face. “And no one told me the great consulting detective John Hamish Watson was getting help from _beyond the grave_.” He laughed.

“You can see him?” John questioned, pointing behind him to the ghost, but all the man in the white suit did was laugh, rolling his eyes.

“Now I can see why he's enlisted the likes of you. All body, no brain, perfect to move around in.” He snorted.

“And what do you want with John's services if you're so much better than he is?” Sherlock questioned, his eyes narrowing.

“Just someone to pick a little something up for me while looking impeccably cute.” He taunted, although his face remained stern...threatening.

“And what is this thing you want me to pick up?” John questioned, not trusting this man at all.

“A live parcel.” Moriarty said simply, keeping his eyes glued to the ghost.

“Like...a lost pet?” John's eyebrows furrowed. Jim looked at him and laughed, dropping his gaze to the floor.

“No,” He pushed himself to his feet. “no, no no nonono NO!” He turned, throwing the tea cup across the room, shattering it off the wall. John flinched, keeping his eyes on him. The man in the white suit inhale deeply, dragging his hand across his face as he paced, then stopped, looking back at John. The grin returned, his hands cupping in front of him. “A _live_ parcel.” He repeated. “Think... _darker_.”

“Smuggling.” Sherlock offered. Moriarty's eyes lit up as he points at the ghost.

“Yes! Smuggling to you pea brain _MORONS!_ ” He screamed.

“We're not going to break the law for you,” John pushed himself to his feet. “I would appreciate it if you left my house now.”

“Oh but you'll want to do as I say this time.” Moriarty replied, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He rocked back and forth onto his heels, twisting. There was a stern, dark expression on his face, any trace of a smile he had gone.

“No, I'm not interested in your criminal activities, get out of my house.” John growled.

“Mmm no,” Jim's forehead crinkled a bit, looking off to the side. “I _really_ think you'll want to do as I say this time.” Snapping, John pulled a gun on him, pointing it at him. Moriarty threw his hands up in the air, playing shocked. Even Sherlock pulled away shocked.

“I said get the bloody hell out of my house now.”

“Jesus John, where the hell did you get a gun?” He hissed.

“I was in the military, don't ask stupid questions.” He replied simply, cocking the gun.

“Oh no,” Moriarty replied dully. “Johnny has a gun.” His lips twitched, pulling into a devious smile. “Oh!” A red dot appeared on John's shoulder through the windows. “So does Jimmy.” John stood still, not moving as the lasers traced his head and shoulders. He bit his lip knowing that if he _did_ take a shot at this asshole, he was going to be gunned down for sure. “Now if I were you, I would put the gun down and seriously give daddy's offer a ponder. Hm?”

John didn't move, keeping the gun up. God his smug fucking attitude pissed John off. He half toyed with the idea of pulling the trigger anyway. Maybe if he did he could dive out of the way before they pulled the trigger? Call the cops and get them in here before they smashed in through his doors to pick him off?

“John,” Sherlock warned him. His arm tensioned up, grinding his teeth, but he didn't back down. His finger twitched, his focus blurring out everything but the man, no, the _prick_ in front of him. “John,” Sherlock warned again, this time turning enough to look at him.

“Uh oh, Sherlock, puppy isn't listening to daddy's commands, you might have to get the newspaper.” Moriarty smirked, his hands finding their way into his pockets, shifting his weight to his left foot.

“Oh piss off.” John snarled.

“Or put him down, he seems a bit dangerous.”

“John, put the gun down!” The ghost snapped. John took a deep breath, feeling the fire run from his fingers up his arm, causing the veins in the side of his neck to pulse, but after a few moments, he obliged, dropping the gun. “Now tell us why you've come to us to do your dirty work. Give us the details, and only then will we accept.” He stepped forward, putting a body between John and the white suited madman just a few feet away.

“Fair enough.” Moriarty smiled, bouncing a bit as he looked at John. “There is a shipping container by the Royal Portbury docks. In that container will be my live parcel-”

“What is the parcel?” John interrupted.

“Now now,” He smirked, turning on his heel, rotating from one direction to the next, his heel acting as a pivot before stopping, leaning forward a bit. “you don't want to spoil the big surprise do you?” John stared at him, his jaw flexing a bit as he ground his teeth. He couldn't believe he was listening to this asshole. He couldn't believe he was still letting this psychopath stand in his house and make threats and act like he owned the place. “Oh, I see, you're still not convinced you should take the job, well.” He fished into his pocket. Pulling out his phone he dialed a number, putting it to his ear.

John stood there, his arms tensing up as he stared at him, his hand firmly gripping the gun just incase his mind decided that, yes, he wanted to shoot this man in the face and risk being killed/going to prison for the rest of his life. “Put our guest on.” He said simply after a minute of silence. Pulling the phone away from his ear he put it on speaker phone and grinned sadistically. “Hello!” He greeted dramatically, his voice a rollercoaster as it soared in a sing-song voice through the different pitches.

“Who is this! Let me go!” A woman on the other side screamed. Sherlock looked at the phone confused, his eyebrows furrowing as he attempted to figure out who the woman was on the other side of the phone, but John knew.

“Harriet!” John screamed.

“John!” She screamed back, sobbing desperately. He ripped his gun back up, tears coming to his eyes as he pointed the gun back at Moriarty.

“You son of a bitch! Where is she?! Where is my sister-”

“Ah, ah ah.” He lifted his hand, wagging a finger at him as if he were some dog who'd jumped up on the table and stole a porkchop from a family dinner. “you don't want to do something stupid now do you Mr. Watson? After all, you kill me and you'll never see your darling sister again.” He chuckled. “This is why I killed my brother.” He stared at the army doctor, gauging his reaction, his smile stretching when he got the predicted response. “too much baggage.” He shrugged playfully.

“Tell me...where my sister is,” John panted, consumed in anger. He inhaled in and out sharply through the nose, his fingers crackling as he attempted keep his wits about him. He knew that if he shot Moriarty he'd never find Harriet. He knew that the man in the white suit was right, even if he did hate admitting it.

“God you are a dull creature aren't you?” Moriarty rolled his eyes, pulling his hands from his pockets. He turned his back on the doctor, resting his face in his palm. “Get my parcel,” He instructed, slowly dragging his hand down across his face, a smile pulling at his lips. “Go to Portbury and retrieve my parcel and she'll be safe.” He turned around again, looking at them warmly, even if that warmth was energy transferred from hell.

“I swear Moriarty, if you hurt her...” John threatened.

“John, take a breath and sit down.” The ghost glanced at John over his shoulder, making sure he did as he said. When John shifted, taking a seat in his armchair, he looked at Moriarty and took a deep breath. “So you want us to deliver this parcel to you to save John's sister, must be important if you can't go yourself.” He paced a bit. “A living parcel, most likely people. Who are you smuggling over?”

“Oh, that might have crossed the line from questions you'll get an answer to into none of _your_ business.” He smiled, looking at the ghost. “But do keep trying. It's fun watching you scratch at the side of your coffin.”

“Alright then,” Sherlock's face warped, a sickened, sinister sneer came across his face. “How do you know me and how did you know that I was even in existence?”

“Ah! Now you're asking the _fun_ questions!” Moriarty bounced a bit, his smile mirroring that of Sherlock's. “An army doctor loses his wife and moves out of London to Bristol. He buys a _haunted_ house that once belonged to a famous detective. The worlds one and only consulting detective _Sherlock Holmes_.”

“But that's not enough to tip anyone off.” Sherlock added.

“No, no after all it is just a crappy house by the water.” The man looked around the room as if disappointed to even be standing there. Sherlock's fist clenched by his side for a few seconds before relaxing, regaining his composure. “But all of a sudden the army doctor becomes a consulting detective One with immeasurable skills of deduction?” He looked at Sherlock his jaw dropping in a dramatically exaggerated expression of shock.

“And it's not as if he has these skills on his own or else he would have started this job sooner.” Sherlock confirmed.

“Bingo.” Moriarty paced, his hands remaining in his pockets.

“So you decided to come here and check up on him to see if the rumor was true, to see if John Watson was receiving help from beyond the grave.” Sherlock paced as well, keeping an equal distance between John and Moriarty, making sure to always remain between the two. “But you shouldn't be able to see me, even if you did discover it was me possessing John, you shouldn't be able to see me.”

“I'm an avid believer in the supernatural, Sherlock.” Jim stopped, looking at him over his shoulder. “All it takes is for you to say, _I believe_ to unlock the secrets of the universe. Besides, my mummy was a ghost.” He smiled. “A very hateful one too.” Sherlock stopped, staring at him in return, his jaw tight.

“So you killed your mother as well.” He guessed.

“No, no no, my father made sure to do that for me. Landed himself in prison, landed me with my brother. It was me who killed my brother in the same room my mother died.” He explained, staring off at the walls.

“How tragic,” Sherlock replied gruffly, not really caring.

“Not really. I didn't like them much anyway. And if he hadn't done it I would have sooner or later.” He smirked.

“You're disgusting.” John growled from his seat. Moriarty turned, looking at him insulted.

“Sherly, your dog is barking at me again. Shut him up before I stuff his mouth so he can't.” He smirked. The ghost shifted, taking a step back, making his position a little more clear in the fact that he was protecting John. “Oh I see, you're sleeping with your little dog.” He laughed, turning to face them properly. “I bet you love it don't you? The feeling of him at your ankles, his little tail wagging.”

“Stop talking about him like that.” Sherlock warned.

“Oh? You don't like being bent over by your shaggy blonde military dog? Being made to grovel, to _beg_.” He took a few steps forward, his nose just inches from Sherlock's. John attempted to push himself up but Sherlock's hand stopped him. The ghost didn't back down or away. He stared into Moriarty's eyes with defiance as the shorter man leaned forward, pressing the tips of their noses together. He smiled, their eyes burning into each other's with hatred. “Or are you the dog in the relationship?” He whispered finally.

“Neither of us are the dog or the master. That's not how this relationship works.” Sherlock replied as well, holding his ground. He knew what this was, it was a territorial stand off. Moriarty was attempting to establish his dominance and he already won with John by making the doctor unstable.

“Does it work?” He smirked, rubbing his nose lightly against Sherlock's.

“Of course.” The ghost replied simply. He wasn't going to give Moriarty anymore than what he needed to. If he spewed off too much information he could warp it and twist it to make John mad at him and that was the last thing he wanted.

“Mm,” His smirk faded a little, his eyes looking down as their noses. “you're kind of sexy this close.” Sherlock looked at him confused for a moment before shrugging it off. John shifted on the chair behind him, huffing, digging his knuckles into his mouth as he propped his head up on his hand.

“Thank you but let's not get off subject here. Why the sudden interest in me?”

“I want to rattle your cage,” Moriarty replied, grabbing the ghosts waist. “to rile you up so much you froth at the mouth like a rabid animal then come in and extinguish it. That's how you tame a wild dog you know.” He smirked, pulling him close. Sherlock's eyes slid shut a bit but he refused to close them all the way. He attempted to ignore the rough fingertips digging into his sides, the thumb caressing his stomach and hips. “You cage him, then come in and establish your dominance.” He pecked his lips against Sherlock's. John snarled behind him but Sherlock didn't move. He didn't falter or flinch or respond. “And by the end of this, your little guard dog behind you will be dead, and you'll be nothing more than a lovely belt buckle, albeit a very large, squealing one.” He pecked his lips against Sherlocks again and stepped back.

Turning he grabbed an umbrella he'd stashed by the couch and made his way to the front door. “Remember Sherlock, Royal Portbury Docks, you'll want to get there before anything happens to your darling sister-in-law.” Grabbing the front door he pulled it open and made his way out, shutting it behind him. John stood in a flurry and looked at him hurt and angry.

“What the bloody hell was that?” He snarled.

“I'm glad to see you were keeping up with everything and everything _wasn't_ going in one ear and out the other.” Sherlock snorted, stepping away from the couch.

“I meant the bloody kiss!” The doctor snapped. “You let him kiss you Sherlock! What the _fuck_ was that?”

“What does it matter?” The ghost turned, looking at him confused. “It was a kiss from a madman who currently has your sister.”

“It was a kiss that you didn't sock him in the face for!” John hollered. Sherlock didn't say anything, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Rolling his eyes the doctor yelled again. “Sherlock you don't just let people kiss you!” He growled, then stopped, his eyes wide as it hit him. “Did you like it?” Sherlock looked at him stunned, then shook his head, his face twisting.

“What? No!” He turned, making his way to the door.

“You did, you liked it!” John followed him.

“John I did not like the kiss, it was just a kiss I have full control over all of my emotions, please and thank you.” He grabbed John's coat handing it to him.

“Then why did you not sock him in the face!”

“Because that's what would have gotten you killed!” Sherlock turned, snapping at him. “It was a display of dominance! One that you obviously failed when you were too riled to even stand properly! And where did you even get that bloody gun for God's sakes you're going to end up hurting yourself with it!” John pulled back looking at him shocked, then glared at him.

“I was a soldier Sherlock, and I'm glad to see you think so bloody highly of me.” He ripped his coat from his hands and put it on. Sherlock stopped, instantly regretting everything.

“John,”

“No, you're right Mr. Dominance, Mr...High and Flipping Mighty. I'm glad I have you here, God forbid I need to _ever_ take care of myself.” He buttoned it up and shoved the ghost out of the way, working on putting his shoes on.

“John, stop.” Sherlock stumbled back a bit, but caught himself.

“Nope. I have to go save my sister all because Mr. _Famous After Death_ attracted a _Psychopath_!” He shouted, slamming his foot into his shoes. Sherlock watched him, feeling his heart beat speed up, his blood running cold.

“John, he did this on purpose to make us mad at each other.” He tried to explain.

“Oh really?” John stood up, smiling. It looked genuine, but Sherlock could tell from the look in his eyes that it was laced with anger and spite. “I'm glad he succeeded and that we have the amazing Sherlock Fucking _Holmes_ to deduce that for us! We can all go home now!” He shoved him back again, leaning down to fix his shoe.

“John please,” The ghost looked at him desperately. “Don't make me the badguy here.” He plead with him.

“I don't need to, you did that pretty well when you were hip locked with a psychopath who has snipers set up around my house.” He winced as he held the back of his shoe up, pushing his heel down past it, pinching his finger between his foot and the back of the shoe.

Sherlock stared at him, his mouth hanging open. Suddenly reaching forward he grabbed John's gun from him. The doctor looked up shocked, stepping back assuming that the ghost was going to aim it at him, but when Sherlock put it to his own head, he stopped. “What the hell are you doing?” He asked, feeling unamused.

“I upset you,” Sherlock replied simply.

“Oh God, I'm dating a drama queen.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No, you seem to be questioning my loyalty,” Sherlock replied icily.

“And what will shooting yourself accomplish?” John smirked, crossing his arms. Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. He couldn't believe that John wasn't taking this very seriously. Pulling the gun from his head he put it to his leg and pulled the trigger, blowing a hole through his thigh. The sound of the gun going off made John jump as Sherlock fell back against the wall.

“Do you think I can't feel this!” Sherlock screamed through clenched teeth, his leg shaking as it was covered in blood. “Do you think that just because I'm dead I can't hurt when shot? Or stabbed? You seemed to enjoy the fact I felt you having _sex_ with me last night!” John's hands went to his head, staring as blood dripped to the floor. “So tell me, John! How many bullet's will it take?” He pushed the gun into his stomach, pulling the trigger. He gasped, almost dropping the gun but he held on tight.

“Sherlock are you _mad_?” John screamed.

“Oh just a _little_.” He snarled, his breathing coming in hard. “I would take a bullet for you and yet you think I am ready to up and waltz out there on the arm of a psychopath?” Sherlock panted, putting the gun into a different spot of his stomach, pulling the trigger. This time he hit the floor, grabbing at his stomach desperately as the pain made his arms shake.

“Stop!” John rushed over, trying to take the gun away.

“Not until I can prove to you what I will go through to make sure you stay safe. That you are the only one I want.” He pulled the gun away from his stomach, blood dripping down his chin. “And not until you start taking me seriously.” He wheezed.

“I'm sorry,” John dropped to the floor beside him. “I'm sorry, I know, I know I'm a tosser. I just...” He shook his head, looking Sherlock over, biting his lip. He took the gun from him and looked at the bullet wounds. Each one hit a major organ. “you didn't do anything about it. You _let_ him. And you don't even care!” John tried defending himself.

“I don't care because I _know_ it was to get us to fight. God for being a normal human being you're ignorant as to how they act.” He groaned, wincing as fire burned up through his stomach from the wounds. “Besides, if I were to have swung, I would have put you in direct danger.” He choked a bit, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” John questioned, grabbing his hands, but Sherlock shook his head, unable to stop the blood that bubbled from his lips.

“Even if you could you would be wasting your time,” He wheezed, looking off across the room. “I'm dead already...so it's not like I'm going to die and stay dead.” He reminded the doctor, even though he wished it would just hurry up and happen. The pain was beginning to become intolerable, even as his lungs started filling with fluids. “Just...let me die.”

John nodded and rubbed his thumb across his hands. He watched, feeling like a serious jackass for having pushed the ghost this far, even though he knew that this wasn't going to kill him for good. It still had to be agonizing.

Sherlock took a couple of hard breaths, his eyelids starting to feel heavy as he continued bleeding out. He would be back to normal in just a bit, but he had to actually let the wounds kill him -for some messed up reason. He tried to ignore the feeling of his wounds trying to fill up his lungs like a water balloon in a sink. John didn't leave his side, holding his hands as every couple of seconds he'd wince and groan and hack, blood splattering out of his mouth, hitting the floor. When it became hard for him to draw breath, Sherlock rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes as his heart stopped. No more breaths were taken.

John sighed, rubbing his forehead. He took a seat beside him, propping his head up on his hand as he waited. He thought about Moriarty and what he had made them do. Sherlock was right, if he had taken a swing at the white suit donned dickhead, his snipers would have been all over him like flies to garbage. So what Sherlock had done was actually a good thing.

“Thinking?” Sherlock's eyes opened, the wounds and tears in his clothes fixing themselves. John's head snapped up, surprised to be hearing his voice so soon, but nodded.

“Yeah,” He cleared his throat, resting his chin on his hands. “You were right. I just...any normal person would have swung at him whether we were surrounded by danger or not, unless he liked it so...” He shrugged. “I would have punched him in the throat.”

“I know you would have, which is why you failed his test.” Sherlock replied before pushing himself to his feet. Turning he held his hand out, offering John help up.

Looking up the doctor hesitated then grabbed his hand. Gripping the wall behind him he pushed himself to his feet, looking down at the blood on the floor. “That'll go away eventually.” Sherlock assured him, dusting himself off first and then John.

“How is it you wear a normal set of clothes, and then you vanish, or get shot and your clothes vanish too?” The doctor questioned, staring down at the blood which was slowly starting to seep into the cracks of the floor and vanish.

“You're asking the wrong person. There are a lot of things about this existence that I don't know and can merely only guess. It would be _nice_ to know, but if we could figure it out what is to stop us from being transferred into other bodies, or our own? Figuring out what a ghost is made of, and what is keeping us here physically and allows us to do the things we do could also be used to bring us back, or bind us to our bodies or even give normal human beings the same powers we do, don't you think?” He pulled back, looking at his short lover. “But with no possible way to test the theories we're at at standstill on any and all progressive understanding. But right now we have more important matters, like getting you to Harry before Moriarty does anything stupid with her.” Grabbing John he walked around to the back of him and vanished, entering him.

John closed his eyes, feeling the familiar push and pleasure as Sherlock settled himself in. He loved it when they were joined together like this. He felt warm, and full and not hollow. But it always took a few moments for him to adjust to the possession. His eyesight changing, the feeling of Sherlock wearing him like a posh suit, his fingers sliding into his like gloves. His...yeah.

“We ready?” the ghost questioned.

“Can't we just...stay inside and explore each others bodies while in possession?” He groaned.

“John your sister could die at any given moment I would suggest we hold off on the sexy makeup activities until after-”

“Yeah, yeah I know.” John grimaced. Grabbing his keys off of the hook he pulled the door open, letting in the cat before shutting it tight behind him. He quickly made his way across the yard, starting the car with a push of his remote starter -courtesy of Clara as a Christmas gift. Unlocking his door he climbed in and waited for it to warm up. As he did, his eyes skimmed the property, looking for any sign that the snipers were still there, but with no such luck. There were no footprints on the beach where some of the lasers were coming from, and no sign that anyone was in the garage. Whoever Moriarty had brought with him were dangerous and very professional and -thank God- gone.

Once sufficiently warm, he put the car in reverse and backed up, turning around. He made his way for the treeline, driving quickly but carefully across the slick ground to the highway. It was his fault Harry was in this mess, his and Sherlock's. He just hoped he could get to her in time


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock search the docks in search of Harry's sister. Still rather miffed at each other from their argument, but when Harry finds herself hanging by a rope, the two put aside their fighting to rescue her. Unfortunately, John's love for his sister puts Sherlock in great danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to update. I had a bad bad bad time. I will continue this story and I will finish it. Thank you for sticking with me. I'm so so so sorry.

**Chapter 18**

John fidgeted in his seat, looking out over the docks, his fingertips to his lips. He chewed at his nails, leaning forward to look back as a few Lorry's passed them. Sitting back in his seat he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, idly beating out a rhythm that kept tempo with his racing heart.

"John, calm down." The detective spoke, voice calm and deep.

"I am calm." The doctor replied, turning his head just enough to flash a forced smile. He shifted again, looking out over the water, the ships sailing in and leaving once more after dropping off their load. His nostrils flared as he exhaled through his nose, fingers moving back to his mouth.

"John, calm down."

"I am calm!" John snapped, his palm hitting the steering wheel. Sherlock shook his head, eyes rolling to the back of his skull as he averted his gaze.

"Obviously." He crossed his arms, leaning against the door as he picked at his own nails, his legs crossing. "I should have been able to ascertain that, silly me."

John didn't say anything, his gaze landing on the detective in an incredulous manner. His mouth hung slightly agape as his eyes narrowed.

"Don't," He shook his head, catching the ghosts attention from the ships outside. "don't start doing this." John slapped the key back into the ignition, his fingers wrapping around the steering wheel tight enough to blanch his knuckles.

"John, you should be staking out the place. This is your sister-"

"In case you failed to realize, Sherlock, we're not even supposed to be _back_ here!" He retorted, his voice raising above that of his companions. "I could get _arrested_!"

"But you _won't_." The detective insisted, his words sharp as he looked John in the eyes. The doctor didn't approve, rolling his eyes as he leaned back, shaking his head. It wasn't until a figure clad in a security uniform appeared just outside the door that John opened his eyes, jumping as a set of knuckles wrapped against the window. Leaning forward, John turned the car on just enough to roll the window down. He shot the office a nervous smile.

"Can I help you?" The man asked, squinting against the glare of the sun.

"Um...I-I was-"

"John, tell him you're a detective and you're looking for something." He leaned forward, speaking low as if worried the man on the other side of the door would hear. John shrugged his shoulder, a basic gesture that read very much like _piss off_.

"There's nothing...really..." Sherlock rolled his eyes. At that rate, John's suspicion that he was going to end up slapped in cuffs would become a reality. Taking a breath, the detective took over, sending a harsh shiver through the doctors body, one that made the man look at him concerned.

"I'm sorry. Actually yes, I am looking for something. I'm John Watson, consulting detective with Scotland Yard." He held his hand out. The Security guard paused for a moment before gasping, a look of clarity lighting his eyes.

"I didn't recognize you! I'm so sorry, is there anything in particular you were looking for?" He inquired, stepping back a bit, his form relaxing. The man seemed to be quite friendly, laid back. John had received so much anxiety from this man that it was almost pity worthy. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, it was understandable.

"I'm looking for any shipping crates that have arrived within the last 24-48 hours that look suspicious." He replied shutting the car off. Grabbing the handle he pushed the door open and climbed out, minding his head on the lower hanging ceiling.

"A suspicious looking crate?" The man repeated, more for his own benefit than the detectives. He exhaled a gusty breath, dragging his fingers through his hair as he thought it through. "I can't guarantee I know which crate you're looking for, and any one in charge of shipments is on break right now or busy. I can bring you through though." He offered, dropping his hand from the back of his neck.

The man seemed to be in his late 20's, early 30's. Married according to the ring around his finger, stashed beneath a set of thin leather gloves. Not particularly wealthy given the wear of the leather around the knuckles and palms, the hem of his pants and cuffs, and the cracking of the flesh about his jaw and neck suggesting razor burn from disposable razors.

He had short style haired, well groomed but not professionally done. His wife most likely. No animals given the exemplary condition of his work uniform. Clean of hair but riddled with dust. There was a smell of older cologne lasting...2 or 3 days old, suggesting he either didn't wash his clothes everyday by habit. Given the ironed status of his trousers and cleanliness of the rest of his being, it was more likely they didn't own a washing machine or dryer concluding that they either didn't have the money for one and didn't have the money to afford a laundry service or didn't have the money for a space that could _allow_ one.

"That would be great, thank you." He forced a smile. Removing the heavy gloves from the pocket of John's jacket, he slid them on, following behind the man as he lead them across the road to the chain link fence separating the roadway from the shipping yard.

"I'll let you take over again." Sherlock muttered, separating his conscience from John's, allowing him access to his own body again. "All you have to do is have a conversation with him, nothing more." He fixed his jacket, his long legs taking each step with a graceful stride.

John didn't say anything in return, keeping his head down as he followed the guard. There was silence between the three of them, an obvious tension between the doctor and the detective -a tension that was felt but not understood by their third party.

"So you said there'd been no suspicious looking shipments?" John questioned as they came to the first row. Each crate was large, made of steel. Some of them were painted wood.

"He won't hold her in a wooden container." Sherlock confirmed as John's eyes skimmed over a couple wooden ones with doubt.

"It's a bit easy, isn't it?" John questioned, keeping his voice down as the guard stepped back, displaying them with a wave of his hand like a co-host on _The Price is Right._

"He's not trying to challenge us," Sherlock agreed, spinning to gaze upon their surroundings. His eyes skimmed over the dirt on the cement, stones near by, the crates themselves. He found a camera attached to a post not too far away. John looked up as well when the ghost paused on the camera, his eyebrows furrowing.

"It's not in this span then." He muttered.

"No, I think it might be." The detective muttered. John's forehead crinkled, his pursed lips puckering a bit at the sound of it.

"Why do you think that?" He turned, giving the guard a look and smiled, nodding. "Thank you, we'll come find you when we're done if that's alright." The guard nodded, a smile on his face as he latched his thumb through his belt.

"Alright, good luck Mr. Watson." He bowed his head in respect before shoving on through.

"Our _client_ is a mad man, but he's not stupid. She's clever, and out right. Most people would come and dance around the truth of their business, but he came right out and admitted he'd been the one who took your sister." He muttered, thinking it over more to himself.

"And?" John tilted his head, rubbing his fingers across the leather on his gloves.

"Why would he hide from a camera? He'd want to be seen." Sherlock clarified.

"So you think we'll find him on the security?" John questioned, eyebrows raising as his eyes followed the ghosts movements, invisible to everyone else.

"No, I'm sure that tape is useless." He made his way for the camera, standing at the base of the post. It was metal, nothing he'd been entirely used to when he was alive. But it wasn't completely faultless either. There were dings and nicks from ladders smashing against it to either repair or change whatever device was up.

"I'd like to think so, we haven't really been using tapes since early 2000's." John joked, hands cupped in front of him.

"No, but this is a shipping yard, this camera is old. Extremely old. But it looks like it was docked to a new foundation." The detective turned, looking around for something to climb on. Finding a conveniently placed shipping crate, he approached it.

"So wait..." The doctor paused, thinking through the methods of deduction -simple deduction- the detective was running through and trying to make sense of it all. "what are you trying to say?"

"The camera isn't administered through the company itself." Sherlock replied with a grunt, pulling himself up to the top of the shipping crate which creaked as if shivering in the cold. "This camera was placed in the spot of a new camera." He made his way to the edge of the crate and stopped, looking at the camera closer.

"Ok?" John replied, still not understanding. His ignorance won an eye-roll from the ghost, a grunt of disapproval leaving his lips.

"This camera was planted by Moriarty. This old camera is attached to a tape deck, in place of the new camera." He explained.

"Ok, that's great, where's the actual security camera?" John grunted, eyes narrow to block out the bright, grey encased sun.

"An old camera," Sherlock muttered, looking at it. He steadied himself, reaching out for the post that was a good distance away.

"Careful, Sherlock." John's fingers flexed, watching him.

"Dead, John." the ghost reminded him with a grunt. "Get ready to catch this." He called down. John moved in place, standing at the bottom of the post. With a flicker, Sherlock grabbed the tape deck he pulled it off the post. He let it drop to John below. Then with a shove, pushed himself back upright.

John lashed out, catching the deck, desperate to keep it from hitting the ground. He was always good at catching things, partial military reflexes. The rest he thanked his love for Rugby. Pushing the deck open, he looked inside to find a tape that said _Happy Wedding_. His nose crinkled at the ritzy penmanship.

"What is it?" Sherlock popped up behind him, startling him ever so.

"Jesus-"

" _Happy Wedding_?" The detective's eyebrows furrowed, taking the tape from him. "Happy Wedding, why-"

"Someone's going to be livid when they find out a mad man stole their wedding tape." John joked, smirking.

"But why a _wedding_ tape? Of all things he could have chosen something else?" Sherlock replied, seeming almost upset by it. John's eyes shot up to his partner's face, mouth hanging open a bit as he shrugged.

"Well, there's always that..wedding motto." He offered.

"What wedding motto?" The detective's face twisted. "Wedding's have motto's?"

"You've never been to a wedding?" The detective was silent, not saying a word as a slight expression of sadness swept over him. John winced, never knowing that the man had been so excluded as to have never actually been to a wedding. "Sorry."

"What motto are you speaking of?" Sherlock pushed on, not wanting to dwell on it for longer than necessary.

" _Something old, something new, something borrowed-"_

_"Something blue._ " Sherlock interrupted, his eyes clear. John smiled, looking at him in wonderment as he pulled away.

"I thought you'd said you'd never heard it?" He chuckled, teasing, but the detective just shook his head, turning his attention back to the post.

"I liked poetry and you people are simple." He took a step back, hands up as if he were blocking out the sight of everything around him, staring from the old camera to the tape deck. "He's given us everything we need, come on John." Grabbing the doctor's hand he made for the Shipping Building.

"Wait, what do you mean _he gave us everything_?" John pulled his hand from the ghosts, knowing he'd look ridiculous being dragged around by nothing.

"Something _old_ , the older security camera with the tape that has given us just enough of a push to figure out the rhyme. Something _new_ , the other camera that was replaced with the old. Something _borrowed_ , obviously, the newer camera is gone. Something _blue_ , he's giving us the color of the shipping crate holding Harry." He stopped at the door to the building, stepping off to the side so John could be the first to open it.

John hesitated before grabbing the knob, turning and pushing it open. He flashed a smile as a woman inside looked up at him.

"Can I help you Mr. Watson?" She questioned, pushing herself to her feet.

"Um...yes, I need a...well, I was wondering if I could be granted access to your surveillance? Also, I need a list of all shipping crates that are blue." He fumbled a bit, expecting to be denied.

She didn't say anything for a bit, just staring at him questionably, her mouth hanging open as her forehead crinkled.

"Wh-"

"I'm on a case." Sherlock took over for John. He stepped forward, lifting the cassette tape. "A woman has gone missing and we believe she is being held hostage in one of the crates just outside. I need access to your surveillance please and thank you." He explained, not bothering to mention the severe details.

"Oh, ok yes." Standing she made her way around the desk she'd been working behind and across the room to a door. She gave the wood a quick rap with her knuckles before opening it. "Sir, Detective John Watson's here, he's asking for access to surveillance." There was a quiet exchange between the two; hardly necessary to actually pay attention to what was being said.

Sherlock turned his gaze about the room, noting the small dingy office. It was a shipping yard, of course there wouldn't be anything like in a larger business, but it was still incompetent for what it was. Blank white walls, a few posters and a notice board on the opposite side of the room the desk was pressed against. A large fake plant erect on either side. Unwise as far as cluttering went, and an uncomfortable seating arrangement by the door.

These people had no idea what was going on, that was for sure, so ruling them out of Moriarty's over all plan was easy. Stepping back from the door, the woman's heels clicking against the tiled floor she flashed them a smile. A man emerged with broad shoulders and tanned skinned. His hair was slicked back with an obnoxious amount of hair product and he wore a suit.

This man though, this man could possibly have been in on it.

"Doctor Watson." He walked over, holding his hand out. Sherlock took his hand, shaking it firmly as his eyes skimmed over his facial features. Smooth skin, well moisturized, cologne. There was a smell about him, one that he recognized.

"That's a very nice fragrance you have. What is it?" He smiled, head tilting a bit to the side. The man looked at him slightly taken aback before chuckling.

"Boadicea The Victorious." He admitted. Sherlock whistled, wincing at the name.

"Very nice. Pricey, but very nice." He complimented, pulling his hand back.

"I require only the finest." The man returned, winking. "You said you wanted access to Surveillance?" He stretched is arm out, wrapping it around the back of John's shoulders, guiding him in through a back door. "May I ask what for?"

"I've received a tip from a friend of ours that something important is being smuggled in one of these crates." The detective explained, keeping the details to a minimum.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John's voice echoed in the back of his mind.

"Hush, John, this man is in on it." He bounced back, his eyes skimming the walls as he was lead to a desk.

"What makes you think that?" John questioned, fighting against being smothered just a bit, ready to take control again just in case the ghost started becoming an asshole.

"Look at him. He wears a suit at a Shipping center, and the manner of which he grooms himself gives it a way."

"What, because he bathes?" John snorted.

"No, he wears Boardicea. A man who will spill 495 pounds on 100ml of smelly water and wear it as such isn't getting his money from a Manager position in a shipping center." He explained.

"Maybe he makes a lot of money? Maybe it's actually a good job?" John offered.

"No." Sherlock refuted.

"No, just...no."

"John, the security guard can't even afford to wash his clothes everyday. The secretary sits in a dingy, dirty, maddening little office day in and day out and skips lunch."

"How do you know she skips lunch?" John interrupted.

"Given it's almost 3 and there is no trace of a meal anywhere in that office. There's no fridge, no cooler. Where does she keep it, behind her ear?"

"Ok, so let's say he _is_ working for Moriarty. What are his motives? Why would he?" The doctor questioned. He knew he should know by now not to question the wisdom of Sherlock Holmes, but he felt it necessary to ask him. If he made some sort of mistake, the backlash wouldn't come back on the ghost, but on himself.

"Money, power?" Sherlock offered. Coming around the desk, he stood over the man's shoulder, looking at the computer screens. All of them were setup in different parts of the field, overlooking the lorry park, crates, shipping docks. All screens were lit except one. "Why is this screen black?" Sherlock questioned, pointing at the darkened screen.

"It must be one of our camera's are out." The man grimaced.

"You don't mind if I take a look, do you?" The man gave him a quick look before inhaling sharply, a smile replacing his placid expression.

"Nope, have at it. I'll be right outside if you need anything." He gave John a friendly tap on the shoulder before slipping past him and out the door, closing it behind him.

"John, I need you to sit and see if you can't pick up the signal of that camera." Sherlock instructed, letting loose the control of the doctor's body.

"Like I know how to do that." John grunted, pinching the bridge of his nose. All of this hopping back and forth between full possession and controlling his own body was making him ache.

"I know, I'm sorry." The detective apologized, looking at him concerned for a moment. Reaching out he rested a hand on his shoulder, watching as the shorter man sighed into his palm. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah." He grunted, smacking his lips a bit as he fought back fatigue. "Yeah, I'm fine." He shifted, letting his hands drop to his sides again.

"I'm taking a lot of energy, I know." Sherlock admitted, rubbing his shoulder. "I'll try to hurry this up."

"Don't worry about it." John forced a smile. Turning to the monitors he sat down and looked at the keyboard. He bit his lip gently, trying to think of how exactly to the control the camera's. There must have been a simple way to do it. "Ok, so...how the bloody hell," He muttered before sitting back, sighing.

"Technology, friend or foe." Sherlock muttered.

"You know how much perfume costs but you don't know how to use a computer?" John looked at the detective incredulously. "How the bloody hell did you even know about that cologne?"

"It was in one of those free magazine things for men. The ones you don't want but they keep sending them to you." Sherlock admitted. "Bloody awful stuff, smells like cat piss and fire." John laughed, shaking his head.

"Oh, I've got an idea." John leaned back in his chair, looking down the front of the desk. He began opening the drawers, rummaging through them piquing the detective's curiosity.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock questioned, standing behind him.

"When they hire new people, they have you job shadow for a couple of days. Some people are thick and forget easily so normally they have-" he paused as one of the drawers opened, a small memo pad inside. "instructions." He smiled. Removing the pad he began skimming through the writing, little notes scrawled down and dated.

"We'll want the more recent ones." Sherlock mused, leaning over his shoulder, looking at the paper as the doctor flipped through it.

"Ok," Turning he faced the computer, hitting a couple keys on the keyboard. A number popped up at the bottom of each screen, labeling them. He paused a moment before hitting the key of the blacked out screen. A blue box popped up reading _Camera Disconnected_. John winced, his nose crinkling as he held his breath. Reaching up, he hit another button, bringing up a menu.

"Try to see what will happen if you choose _Scan for Connection_." Sherlock offered.

"It's disconnected Sherlock." John replied. "What if it's really just...gone?"

"No, no, Moriarty wouldn't do that." The detective pressed his fingers to his lips as John chose the command to scan.

"No? What makes you think he wouldn't?"

"Because he's given us a riddle and he wants us to solve it." Sherlock replied as it clicked through different channels like a television.

"Or he's playing us?" John opted, but just as the words left his lips the screen flickered. There was a very dim light, a hold or something that allowed the sun through and a figure in a chair.

"What-"

"Harry!" John gasped. At the lower left hand of the monitor read _Crate 221B_. Shoving himself to his feet he pushed his chair back, just as the screen went black, a blue dialogue box popping up with the message _Out of Range_. "Out of range, what does it mean?" John panicked, fingers hitting the keyboard to desperately rescan for it.

"She's moving." Sherlock confirmed. "John, we have to go now."

The doctor didn't hesitate. Pushing himself from the desk he made a dash for the door, smashing it open with his palm, causing the secretary to jump, her head whipping around to look at him with concern.

"What is crate 221B?" He demanded, rushing around to her desk. She stuttered at the confrontation, shaking her head.

"U-um, in block B, crate 221, it's by the shipping docks." She replied, pushing herself to her feet. "Should I call the police?" Her voice came out a squeak, but John was already making his way for the door, running.

"Don't bother!" He smashed the door open, not bothering to shut it behind him. He looked around, trying to find the block the woman had mentioned.

"This way!" Sherlock shouted, already taking the lead, running around the side of the building. John followed, his heart pounding like a million drums as his legs pushed him forward with the energy he could muster.

They wove in and out of the rows, looking for any markings, passing block A, C, D. It wasn't until they reached block B, closest to the docks that the grinding of a crane lifting a crate onto one of the ships played at his ears. John stopped, panting, his shoes sliding in the slickness of the ground. Then there was a cracking. A scream could be heard, muffled but audible from above the shipping way.

"Sherlock." John stopped, staring at a blue shipping crate, hovering above the water, halfway between a ship and docks. He felt his heart sink when suddenly, the crate plummeted, causing a tidal wave of a splash. "HARRY!" He screamed.

He didn't hesitate, running for the edge of the water, Sherlock left stupefied until all he could see was his lovers back.

"John no!" He reached for him but it was too late. John was already throwing himself over the edge and into the water as the crate began to sink slowly, his sisters screams now audible for some of the ship workers to hear.

John made his way to the crate, the current of the sinking object starting to pull him down with it. He held his breath as he was sucked under, attempting desperately to find the front of the massive container. When he found it, he found that the door was sealed with a heavy iron rod, the pressure from the water making it almost impossible to grab onto.

He attempted to pull back, his lungs starting to burn as the shock of the cold settled in. He fought for the surface but failed. He felt a searing heat as his body was taken over.

Grabbing the side of the container, he shoved off, grabbing for the surface. He sucked in air gratuitously as Sherlock attempted to force him to the edge.

"No, no Sherlock!" John fought against him, a rupturing agony tearing through his head.

"John, John don't fight me," the ghost pleaded. "You're going to-" John forced himself back under the water, swimming for the crate once more. He could hear Harry's screams under the water. Grabbing the rod he pulled as hard as he could. Unfortunately, his strength wasn't enough.

"Please, Sherlock." He thought, his own voice cold in his head. There was a feeling of reluctance, before fear and anger set in. A hand reached around him, grabbing the rod. John smiled, looking at his partner beneath the frozen waves.

A burst of energy shot through him, the bar ripped from place, the doors bursting open. Sherlock's flesh ripped from his bones as the burst of bubbles from whatever oxygen was left in the crate escaped through the open door, eyes sinking in as he sank to the bottom. It startled John, but he couldn't worry about the ghost right now. He was working on borrowed oxygen and Harry needed to be saved.

Forcing himself in against the rush of oxygen, he reached out, grabbing the figure that was hardly visible through the rush of bubbles.

He attempted to pull her and the chair, but the weight proved to be too much. He choked a bit, water rushing into his lungs as he reached for the ropes tying her down.

He winced against the pain in his lungs, bubbling into his head. He forced his fingers in, fibers ripping into his flesh, pulling the knot of the rope undone. Reaching down, he did the same with her feet as his vision turned hazy, black dancing around the borders of his sight.

Once she was free, she floated. Grabbing her tight, he pushed off the bottom of the crate, feeding her out through the opening and kicking off the top of the container, pushing her to the surface.

When they emerged, a couple people were already there to reel them into safety. They pulled Harry out first, then him, working to clear her lungs. He flopped to the ground hacking, vomiting water from his lungs. Once clear, his eye slid shut, fatigue taking over. He reached for his sister, hand shaking. The voices of the people around him faded to muttering, then a ringing. Then, there was nothing but the cold, and silence.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in the hospital to find that Harry was abducted with the intention or relaying a message, welcoming them into Moriarty's wicked game. But when John remembers that he'd hurt Sherlock, he rushes home to make amends. That's when everything goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was literally half asleep the entire time I was writing this chapter. Sorry.

Chapter 19

  


Pain, warmth. There was a burning that ran through his veins, an annoying beeping ringing in his ears as his head screamed. He opened his eyes, laying on his back beneath a set of heavy blankets. He was surrounded by white. The smell of bleach and medicine prickling through his nostrils.

He let his eyes slide closed again, his fingers twitching. That's when he remembered what had happened. He'd nearly drowned saving Harry. Not one of his more smart ideas, but the moment he'd seen that crate hit the water, he no longer cared about his life.

The door opened, startling him just a little. He looked down, expecting to see Sherlock, but instead, it was a nurse. She was short and round with dark skin and straight hair. She gave him a smile that warmed his frozen flesh and soothed his aching head.

“Hey hun, how are you doing?” She questioned, her voice sweet and soft as she reached up, wiping his hair from his face.

“A little water logged.” He joked, voice hoarse.

“I bet.” She smiled. “Is there anything I can get you?” She questioned, looking over arms and fingers before her eyes wandered back up to his face.

“Anything but water.” He joked again. She laughed, shaking her head. “What happened?” He asked, wanting details of what had happened since they brought him in. She took a deep breath, eyes dropping to the clip board for just a moment before going back up to him.

“You had a lot of fluid in your lungs. Technically, we were considered dead for a couple of minutes. We have you on watch for hypothermia, fingers and toes for frostbite.”

“What about Harry?” He questioned. “My sister.” The nurse frowned a bit before shaking her head. “Oh God.” John brought his hands up to his face, fear, sorrow and anger sweeping through him all at once.

“She's alive, just...she isn't in good condition at the moment.” She admitted, unknowing just how sweet those words were for John to hear.

“Can I see her?” He dropped his hands, looking at her. The question made her freeze, giving him a shocked expression as if he'd just asked something preposterous.

“Are you sure you can get up and move around? I mean, you were technically dead for a few minutes.” She mused, worried he might be pushing himself too hard.

"This wouldn't be the first time." He flashed her a gentle smile. Digging his elbows into the bed, he pushed himself up. His skin felt like sandpaper, burning as it rubbed against his gown and blankets. "I need to see her, please." He insisted, working his way up to a sitting position. The nurse stared him in the eyes, noting that look of determination and that flicker of life he lacked only a moment ago and nodded.

"Alright, but I'm gonna help you." She returned, insisting herself. Reaching out, he grabbed her shoulder gently, swinging his stiff legs over the edge of the bed. Pushing himself to his feet, he groaned, knees crackling from the pressure and the cold.

His eyes slid shut, head reclined as he waited, allowing the world around him to stop spinning so much before opening them again.

He was fine when he got his balance back and the burning in his veins caused by the cold subsided. He walked stiffly from the room like an old man, arm linked around his nurse's. She lead him down the hall a couple of doors and into another room.

Like his own room, it was dark save for a single light above the bed, illuminating the wall and outlets. There Harry was, cured up in a ball, an I.V. in her arm. An electric blanket was draped over her carefully, heat on medium.

"Why-why does she have an I.V?" He stopped in the doorway, pointing to the machine that roared to life every few moments to dispense medicine.

"She's got an infection." The nurse replied simply. She left his side, walking around to Harry's bed. Leaning down, she rested a hand on her shoulder, startling her a bit. Her head popped up from under the blankets, her eyes red and puffy from crying. "You're brother's here." She smiled, pointing over to John.

Harry turned, looking at him, a look of confusion on her face. Her lips quivered, her light brown hair all over the place.

"John." She whispered, her voice breaking. In seconds she was sobbing, arms outstretched to him. He didn't care if it burned his toes to walk. Rushing to her side he threw his arms around her, hugging her tightly. "John, what the fuck." She sobbed, clinging to him.

"I know, I know, it's ok Harry." He was happy to see she was ok, happy to see she was alive, and moving but he was angry. Angry that this had happened to her in the first place; that she'd been made the victim because of his choice of work. "What did they do to you?" He pulled away after a minute, looking into her eyes and face, looking her over. She didn't respond, shaking her head as she averted her eyes, looking down into her lap.

"It seems like whoever did this to her used her as a human sticky note." A man walked in; a doctor by the look of him. He let the door shut gently behind him before turning and offering a hand out to John. "Doctor Albott." John gave him a puzzled expression before shifting, head tilted to the side.

"Albott?" John gave him a quick glance over. He was in his 30's -or appeared to be- tall, a kind face. "Is...by any chance your father Carl Albott?" He questioned, shaking his hand firmly.

"Oh, is it that obvious." The doctor grimaced a bit, trying to keep a friendly smile, although it was a poorly donned mask. He pulled back, removing a photo from his clip board, handing it to the shorter man. "Tis is an image we took." John hesitated before taking the photo from him.

It was an image of Harry's back, words burned into her flesh that read _The Game is On_. _~JM_

He felt his blood boil as eyes slammed shut, grinding his teeth. "We decided to take a photo instead of removing the bandages over and over again to show you." He replied. "Whatever was used was highly unsanitary."

"Bastard." John hissed.

"John?" Harry's voice intruded, plucking his attention from the photo in his hands. He turned, looking at her concerned. "Who the hell is that guy?" She questioned, voice breaking. "I mean...why did he choose me?"

"He's a psychopath. But I promise, he won't hurt you anymore." John consoled her, returning to her side. He hugged, resting her head on his shoulder. He kissed her forehead as she began sobbing again, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I'll find him, and when I do, he'll be sorry he ever did this to you, ok?" He looked down at her, wiping the tears from her face. She nodded.

Reaching up, she took a deep breath as she brushed the hair out of her face, trying to calm down once more. There was a knock, causing him, Harry and the Doctor to look up. The door opened and Clara popped her head in. Her hair was messy, eyes bloodshot. When she saw that Harry was up, she rushed in, pulling her cardigan from her shoulders, dropping it to the floor. She threw her arms around her, kissing her as she cried.

"Oh thank God, thank God." She sobbed, Harry embracing her tight, sobbing into her chest. John watched for a long moment, feeling relief wash over him. Pushing himself off the bed he looked at the nurse, forcing a smile.

"I think I shall like my clothes back now. I have to get home." She returned his smile and nodded, heading out to retrieve his things.

"Are you sure? John you-you died." Harry choked, looking up at him, wiping a bit of snot from her nose. Clara grabbed her a couple tissues, handing them to her and using one for herself.

"I just...yeah, I just really think I should go home. Take a nice hot shower and think of how I'm going to find the bastard." He bounced a bit, hands cupped in front of him, hiding just how livid he was behind a smirk.

The nurse returned a few moments later, handing him his pants and shirt, his jacket still soaked but the rest of his clothes were dry.

"Here are some slippers you can wear home. Your pants and shirt are dry, unfortunately your coat is not." He took them from her, smiling. He checked his pockets, fishing out his wallet and mobile with disdain.

"Bugger." He muttered to himself. Now he needed a new phone. Shoving his hand back into his pocket, he paused. Looking up, he looked at the nurse questioningly, eyebrows furrowed. "Where are my car keys?"

"Oh, a man drove your car and left it for you. A man from the Shipping yard." She'd almost forgotten. John didn't like that news, someone else driving his car, but he supposed it would have been better than prying Clara from Harry to give him a  back to the shipping yard.

"What did this man look like? I should go and thank him." John questioned, turning to the little bathroom attached to the room. He shut the door all but a crack and quickly pulled his pants, trousers and shirt on before stepping back out.

"He was tall with a nice suit, well groomed with dark hair." She described. John fixed the cuff of his shirt, lips pursed. So it'd been the man Sherlock had been suspicious of. It didn't seem very evil of him to drive his car to the hospital. "He said his name was Mr. Moran?" She questioned, eyebrows furrowing.

"Moran?" The name didn't ring a bell with John. Of course he'd never asked for the mans name at the yard either.

"Yes, I think it was Sebastian Moran. I can't remember." She crossed her arms, shuttering against the slight breeze from the hall.

"I'll have to go and thank him in the morning." Turning he rested the dressing gown on the back of a chair and smiled at his sister. "I'll be back up in the morning to see how you're doing." Walking over, he hugged them both, giving them a kiss.

"Have a good night, John." Clara bid, rubbing Harry's back as she turned back to comfort her.

"Good night." Turning he slipped out past the doctor and nurse, making his way to the front desk. He quickly signed a discharge paper, waiting for it to be filed away and processed before heading for the lift.

Although he was still stiff, he moved as fast as he could, not wanting to be in there any longer. Not when the realization that Sherlock was no longer with him sent a trickle of anxiety through him.

Stepping outside into the cold, he spotted his car right out in front. He made his way to it briskly, huddling against the cold. He debated on draping his coat over his shoulders but with it's wetness, it wouldn't do much good.

Grabbing the door he pulled it open, tossing his coat in the back and climbing in. He found the key already in the ignition and turned it, the engine roaring to life. Pulling the door shut with a loud thud, he rubbed his hands together, teeth chattering in the cold. That was when an object in the seat beside him caught his attention.

A video tape that said _Happy Wedding_ on it. He looked at it confused, his teeth plucking at his bottom lip. He had no idea why that was with him, in his car. Then the feeling that something was wrong crept in, burrowing it's way into his gut.

"Sherlock." Grabbing his seat belt he brought it down and across his stomach, buckling in. Putting the car in reverse he pulled out hastily but carefully -not that he had to worry about hitting anyone according to the lack of sun.

Slamming it in drive he squealed his tires, pulling out across the parking lot. He drove quickly, ignoring the lights of the city and the sound of the traffic around him as he made for home as fast -keeping as safe as possible- as he could.

He clutched at the steering wheel, chewing on his thumb nails as he remembered what it had looked like. Sherlock had used up all of his energy opening that crate door for Harry. So much that he'd lost his form. He only hoped that it didn't leave any permanent damage.

Pulling up the dirt path 20 minutes later, he pulled up to the garage and shut the car off. He didn't bother grabbing his coat or wallet or phone. Not even the tape. He ran across the yard, almost losing his slippers on the way there in the sticky, semi frozen dirt.

"Sherlock?" He called as he swung the front door open. "Sherlock!" He panicked, his heart pounding in his chest. The house felt cold as it had when he'd crashed. He panted, hands going to his head. He rushed to the kitchen, rummaging through a bag of emergency stuff. Pulling out a battery operated lantern, he flipped the switch. It did nothing.

"Come on you..." REaching back he started whipping open drawers, trying to find a set of batteries he could use. Landing on a new package, he fumbled, fingers digging into the cardboard to rip them off. "Bugger, bugger-" pulling the paper from the back, he flipped the lantern over and pulled the battery tray cover off to find that it was the wrong kind of battery. "Jesus!" He snarled, throwing the batteries across the room.

Turning he ran for the downstairs bathroom. Pushing the door open he tore apart his cabinet's, knowing he had at least a couple of the batteries needed.

With luck, he stumbled across an unopen package of 2 and raced back for the kitchen. He grabbed the lantern and forced them in, the light flickering on at first, then beaming bright. Grabbing the casing for the battery compartment he replaced it and covered it with duct tape.

Leaving his mess on the counters, he ran across the living room and to the office. He didn't hesitate, ripping the books from their designated places. Grabbing the handle he hauled the book case open and slipped in, running down the stairs. His feet hit the bottom with a gentle splash, the light around him causing a writhing figure to scurry from the bottom of the stairs.

"Sherlock?" He called. His eyes fell on the tub, seeing it's porcelain shimmering in the light of the moon. He stepped forward, the light from the lantern shimmering like fire. A gentle step behind him prickled at his ears. He turned, coming face to face with the shattered, tattered visage of the ghost he'd left behind in the water. His flesh hung from his jaw, lips tattered, eyes sunken in, hair stuck like seaweed. "Sherlock." John whispered.

The ghost reached out, grabbing his shoulders. John's eyes shut halfway. The lantern hit the floor, shattering. The mangled flesh pressed against his own, strong, frozen arms wrapping around his waist as warmth filled him. But the warmth crumbled, shards of ice shooting through his veins. He attempted to struggle but found himself falling to the ground, unable to move.

He closed his eyes completely, exhaustion becoming too much for him. All he wanted was to rest, and the feeling of the boney fingers grabbing at his shoulders and waist were more relaxing than he'd ever thought possible.

He moaned gently into the kiss, his oxygen feeling as if being sucked away by a vacuum cleaner.

"John." A whisper at the back of his head, no more than a conscious thought.

"John." He arched as the chilled hands like ice slid up the front of his shirt, sending a shiver down his spine.

"John!" The voice grew louder, now having a definite indentity.

"Sherlock." He breathed a sharp pain at his stomach, chest and neck.

"John!" The ghosts face flashed before his eyes, frighting him. His voice booming as if right by his ear. The doctor's eyes snapped open, engulfed in pain as he looked down. The tattered spirit above him vanished as the detective swung a burning arm down and across it's back. Three or four other spirits skittered away like shadows flickering across the room. "John get up!" Sherlock hissed, reaching down for him.

John hesitated, reaching up as the pain of his arms and abdomen struck an all new level of agony. "Go, go!" Sherlock shoved him up the stairs, his body lighting up in flames as he screamed at the others, a demonic shriek of his own. The twisted blackness shrieked back, obviously angry at his interference. John stood at the halfway mark of the steps, watching. Face to face, shrieking back and forth. Suddenly a twisted set of hands emerged from the darkness grabbing at his ankles.

John ripped his ankles from it's grasp, slamming his foot down on the fingers. Whatever spirit was down there shrieked and either immense anger or agony. The arms shot out, attempting desperately to pull it's mangled body from between the steps, the flesh stripped, organs spilling out. John panicked slightly and ran the rest of the way up the stairs, slamming the door shut.

He leaned against it, panting, his flesh about his stomach and hips hurting. He lifted his shirt, looking down to see that a few bite marks were taken. Blood all over his stomach and hips, festering and oozing black. He winced, nose crinkling.

Pushing himself from the book shelf, he hobbled for the kitchen. He grabbed the first aid kit and plopped down at the table, removing his shirt. He panted as what felt like a fever set in, turning his vision to haze.

"John." The ghosts voice interrupted his thoughts as his breathing became hard.

"I'm sorry." Her apologized, panting. He ground his teeth, sweat trickling down his forehead.

"Don't be." Sherlock stepped forward, his face sallow, exhausted, but his eyes were so sweet. The detective lowered himself to his knees, taking a small bottle of rubbing alcohol out and dabbing his wounds with a cotton ball. John screamed, the pain like nothing he'd felt before, his head falling back.

"Oh God," He forced a laugh which was smothered out by his growling through gritted teeth.

"Keep focused, ok, John?" Sherlock reached up, his gentle hand cupping his cheek. "Keep focused on me."

"Am I...a-am I dying?" He stammered, his arms beginning to shake, his abdomen tensing.

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. "But you won't. I'm right here with you."

"Oh for Christ's-" He began shaking.

"John, ssh, close your eyes. Don't fight it." Sherlock pushed himself up, resting his forehead against the doctor's. John's eyes opened, connecting with the detectives. He shook uncontrollably, his body convulsing. Sherlock gently wrapped his arms around him, pulling him from the chair to the floor where John went full out, seizing although his eyes remained clear and connected. "Relax. I'll make the pain go away, I promise." He leaned down, kissing his forehead. "I'll see you soon." He whispered.

John's eyes rolled back in his head, his heart wrenching in his chest, brain feeling as if it were bleeding from a million holes. His muscles went rigid as he inhaled a deep breath. Then there was nothing but blackness. He was devoured again in nothing but silence.

                                                                        Haunted

John woke up only God knows how long later. His body burned, although when he looked down at his stomach, the bites were gone. Nothing but scars left where they were. He let his eyes close again, panting as his breathing came in rough. He turned, looking around the room. His heart fluttered anxiously. He dragged his hands down his face, wiping away the sweat which accumulated on his forehead.

"Sherlock?" He whimpered, feeling alone.

"John." The ghosts voice whispered at his ear. His eyes slid closed as he turned. Opening them again, he saw the sweet, beautiful blue eyes of his lover, his heart giving a sigh of relief.

"What happened?" He questioned, his hand going up to his heart which ached through his ribs.

"You were hurt." Sherlock replied, his hand gliding down across his cheek, tracing his jaw.

"How...how bad was I hurt?" John winced a bit but closed his eyes to the touch, welcoming the hot caresses like a parched man in the desert welcoming water.

"Fatigue mostly." Sherlock replied softly, his deep voice like the howl of the window beneath a bridge. "You pushed, John. I told you not to push and you did." Sherlock looked at him hurt. The doctor didn't say anything right away, looking at the detective blankly. It took a moment for him to respond, his voice quivering.

"I had to save Harry." He insisted. Sherlock shook his head, looking just as tired as John felt.

"You almost killed yourself." Sherlock pushed himself up. "John, you can't do that when I'm with you. I feed off of your energy, when you fight me it burns up twice as fast. I had to break our possession so you wouldn't shatter your own soul." He looked at the doctor, expression stern. "When you fight me, our souls no longer are compatible. We almost fried each other out. I don't..." He looked away.

"I killed you." John whispered, finally realizing what the form was in the basement. The form of Sherlock he'd last seen. He groaned, covering his face with his hands, feeling tears well up in his eyes. "Sherlock," He dropped his hands to his sides. Forcing himself to roll over, he grabbed the ghosts arm, pulling it back a bit. He kissed his wrist, tears hitting his arm. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He apologized. Sherlock looked back at him, an expression of sadness on his face.

"John," Pulling his legs back up onto the bed, he laid beside the doctor, arms wrapping around his waist. He pressed his lips to his lovers, squeezing him tight. "I almost lost you. I don't...I don't want to ever lose you."

"I don't want to lose you either." John whispered, cupping the detective's face, kissing his nose and chin. "What happened with," He looked down at his stomach, swallowing hard as he remembered losing control of his body. Sherlock licked his lips nervously and sighed, closing his eyes.

"We almost fried each other out. When the others got you...well." He rested his forehead against John's, linking their fingers together. "When a malevolent spirit possesses someone, it's not just a possession. It's not an intermingling like yours and mine, and it's not just frying it out like two incompatible spirits. It's the absorption of your life energy. If you take care of it, expel any possession or taint quick enough, you'll recover. If a person is possessed for a long time, their body is left behind as an empty shell if any sliver of the remaining soul is left, or they pass away." He explained.

"But they didn't attempt to possess you, instead what they did was I guess you could consider _tainting_ you. They feast on you, body and soul, blood, flesh, bone. If you get away, the evil is like a poison that festers. It pollutes the soul and it begins to rot away. There is nothing left." His words were soft and filled with sorrow, making John's stomach churn in guilt as his head swam n confusion.

“Then how did I survive?” His eyebrows furrowed, shaking his head just a bit, not understanding.

“I possessed you. Something foreign. Like a vase shattering. If a vase shatters wrapped in plastic, the pieces break but stay together. Then all you need is to fill with glue to keep it together.” His eyes flickered up, as if thinking back on the entire ordeal. John didn't say anything for a long time.

Rolling over, he stared at the ceiling, listening to the silence of the house as the cold crept in. Nothing was said, and in moments he forgot what sound sounded like all together, save for the reverberations in his ears left over from the ghosts voice.

“How long was I out for?” John finally questioned, his voice sounding almost like the fire of a canon, shattering through the desolate tranquility that surrounded them. Sherlock didn't answer right away, his eyes closing for a long moment before taking a deep -albeit unnecessary- breath.

“Two months.” He replied, his voice softer about the edges, the only thing usually otherworldly about the otherwise, lively being. The answer hit John like a train. He threw himself up, bumping Sherlock off his arm as he looked back at him.

“Two months?” He gasped. “ _Two months_?” He repeated. Sherlock was confused at first as to the sudden panic. “I haven't talked to Harry in two bloody months? She was in the hospital? Oh my god,” His hands covered his mouth, his heart pounding in his chest. “Oh my God, she's going to think I died.” He shoved himself out of bed, rushing to get dressed. 

“John, she did come over and visit a few times.” Sherlock replied, attempting to calm him down, but all it did was stop him in his tracks. He whirled around, eyes wide, jaw tight.

“She came _over_? And I just laid here like a _vegetable_?” He wheezed a bit. His pounding heart hurt his chest, stomach muscles tight with fear, but the ghost shook his head. 

“No. Your soul was shattered and mending.” Sherlock insisted. “Do you know when a person ends up so...damaged after something traumatic and they don't respond? They don't speak, or take care of themselves?” He pushed himself out of the bed, walking over to be closer to the doctor. 

“Yes?” John only vaguely knew. He'd seen rape victims and people who'd suffered from PTSD sometimes act like that. 

“You're still alive, but your spirit is sort of...on the mend. Your consciousness is gone, all thinking, feeling. You perform the basic tasks needed to survive. Eating, bathing, walking, bathroom. You were there but not there.” He replied. “I was able to kick in and hold some conversation for you, but I was attempting to recharge myself as well.” Sherlock explained, dragging his tongue across a set of dried lips. 

“So I was...a zombie.” John confirmed, wishing he'd somehow remembered everything that went on -and hoping that he hadn't made an ass of himself. “So she's ok?” Sherlock nodded, a gentle smile coming to his face that only widened when John sighed a sigh of relief. “I have to call her.” He ran his fingers through his hair, hand going to his hip as if reaching for the pocket that wasn't there. “I...I need to call her.” 

“Your phone doesn't work.” Sherlock reminded, unsure if the doctor knew or not, but when the doctor's lips puckered, nose crinkling, he knew that his lover knew, just...didn't remember. 

“Yeah, I'll have to buy a new one.” He turned to his wardrobe, pulling out a jumper and a pair of jeans. He dressed quickly, slipping his feet into a pair of socks then the slippers he'd worn back from the hospital. “I'll just go and visit her while I'm out, let her know I'm ok.” He bent down to fix the toe of his sock before standing back up. “Did you want to come with me, or stay here?” John questioned, turning to look into the mesmerizing -yet exhausted- blue eyes of the ghost who'd sacrificed so much for him when really, he'd deserved what he'd gotten. 

“I think I'll stay here.” Sherlock forced a smile, feeling drained. The doctor didn't say anything else, instead, he nodded and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. 

Sherlock leaned into the kiss, eyes sliding closed as the heat between them tempted him to join John anyway, washing the exhaustion away for a brief moment. But as they separated, it all came back to him, almost twice as hard as before. 

John made his way from the bedroom and down the hall. He walked briskly, heading for the front door, the ghost hot on his heels, flashing from nude to dressed in the blind of an eyes -something the living man envied. 

“I won't be too long.” John replied, looking back at Sherlock as he grabbed one of his extra coats. He wasn't sure if his coat was still damp or not from being left in the car. Hell, for all he knew it was frozen from the chilly winter air. Sherlock smiled, eyes burning just a bit as he nodded. 

“Take your time. I'll be here.” John didn't move for a long moment, smile on his lips as he stared at him through slightly lidded eyes, then questioned softly. 

“What would I ever do without you?” Sherlock felt his chest flutter as if his empty ribs encased an excited heart. He shifted, leaning in just a bit, their faced only a foot or so away. 

“Spend all day figuring out which knickers to wear?” He offered, making John laugh. 

“I love you.” Leaning up the doctor stole a kiss before pulling away. “I'll be back.” 

“You'd better be. I might die from loneliness.” Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets, stepping around the door as it opened, avoiding getting hit. 

“Oh wouldn't _that_ be devastating.” John winked, snickering back at him, then shut the door behind him. Sherlock felt a curtain of loneliness fall over him like a blanket of snow falling from the sky all at once. He gazed from the window as the shorter man made his way briskly across the yard to the car he hadn't touched in weeks. 

Sherlock licked his lips, the air around him hot as he found himself struggling to breath. John pulled the door open, turned the car on and the ghost was engulfed in fire like heat. He pressed his forehead to the cold glass of the door, watching as John backed up, then made his way down the driveway. 

Sherlock struggled against the exhaustion, trying to force his eyes to stay open, but he was losing the battle. Stepping back, he felt his bones crumble, sending pain up his legs. There was no fighting it. He'd already pushed so hard for so long. It was time for sleep. It was time for rest. 

Closing his eyes, he let his head fall backwards. A pressure pushed down on him from all angles, threatening to crush him like an egg shell. Opening his mouth, he gasped, then was gone. He was pulled into a world of darkness, warmth, comfort, peace and loneliness.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally wakes up from his crash after a year to find that John is no longer living at home and has, instead, hired a lovely elderly house keeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After forever and a million years -most of it spent trying to find the last Chapter 20 I wrote and realizing I guess I must have not actually written one- I am deciding to finish this story. Please bare with the short chapters until I get back into the swing of things, yes?

 

Silent and cold. The freezing droplets of chilled rain dripping through the storm grate down into the basement hitting his body like pebbles in the cold. His eyes cracked open, frozen hands running over him. For a moment, he thought they were John's, rough and strong. But they weren't the warmth that the doctor was; that _his_ doctor was.

His eyelashes fluttered, frozen together as his skin shimmered a light purple beneath the overflowing water collected in the tub. A hollow moan of a warped, otherworldly visage in his ear, fingers along his jaw.

His eyes slipped shut again, letting the fingers guide his head back. A pair of stretched black lips claimed his, frostbit tongue caressing the insides of his cheeks. The taste of the monsters mouth was like nickel and graveyard soil as whatever warmth he had left was pulled from him desperately. When the beast failed to get more than a small gust of life from the ghost, it keened into Sherlock's parted lips devastated.

“I'm already dead you bloody idiot.” Sherlock lifted his arm, swiping the creature away, sending them skittering into the darkness of the basement. “For being splinters of myself you're absolutely moronic.” Grabbing the sides of the tub, he ripped himself from the bottom of the porcelain, leaving bloodless fistfuls of flesh along the base.

Yanking his feet up, he gasped, the pads of his heels and the balls of his feet and toes stretching and ripping clean, making him stumble as he lifted his leg and stepped over the edge onto the half frozen, water covered, concrete floor of the basement. All flesh submerged beneath the surface black and all flesh that met the waters top, bruised.

He made his way upstairs, feeling the heat as he climbed each step. He began to shiver, body shaking as his spirit recognized what heat felt like and yearned for it.

Pushing the door open, the air hitting him like an inferno that burned every nerve in his body. He stood, arms held out away from his body, black and rotting; then with a toss of his head let off a hellish scream as the pain overtook him. A pain he'd never felt upon coming back from a crash.

It didn't last long before the door behind him shut and he was hobbling through the house, bottoms of his feet making it difficult to keep his balance as he stepped onto exposed nerve and muscle -and on some toes, bone. He went straight for the stairs, racing up the wooden steps and to the bathroom where he flipped the hot water on and stepped in, black skin peeling from the sudden temperature difference and falling in clumps into the bottom of the tub.

He ground his teeth against the pain, but there was something in the back of his mind that distracted him. Something warmer than the hot water that seared his ghostly flesh. Something hotter than the fires that cooked his senses; no, this made his body quiver. Hands that ran over his back and shoulders. Lips on his neck and at his jaw, and as he doubled to get away from such hands, grab his hips.

He needed John.

Sputtering hot water from his burned lips, he shut the shower off. His soaked curls hung down into his face as his body shivered in the now freezing room. His hips ached as the emptiness inside of him pushed at the walls.

How long had he been out?

How long had he been away, leaving John alone?

Grabbing a towel, he made his way downstairs again, hoping to find the doctor home -or at least any sign of where he'd gone, but there was nothing. There were no signs that'd he'd been home in a while; instead of the scent of his cologne floating through the air on the dust stirred from the counters and old walls, it was a sweet smell of cinnamon bismarck and hemp.

Everything else was the same except clean and warm.

Wrapping in the towel he had grabbed, he looked at the laptop he had received for Christmas -still wrapped in it's original box- and sat down. It only took a couple of moments for him to pull it out and set it up; password, date, time -it was a few simple buttons and questions hissed into the abyss. And once it was all up and running, he brought up the calendar in the lower right hand corner of the screen.

It was January fourth, 2015.

Sitting back, Sherlock tried to remember back to the last date he remembered -which proved to be a little more difficult than he liked to admit given he didn't care what the date was, he just did the cases and let John or Scotland Yard take the credit. But he remembered the year before he went out. December 25, 2013. Christmas day spent with John -one date that would always be stuck in his mind because of their...well...

“I was out for a year.” He muttered, lips resting against his hands. He stared at the calendar, part of him hoping that if he stared at it long enough, the numbers would switch and he'd have only been out for a couple of days. But even then, he knew that that wouldn't have been right given John had been a husk for 2 months.

Well, that made the news a little lighter; knowing he was only out for 9 or 10 months instead of a full year. But all the same, that was all time he wished he hadn't missed.

But where was John?

Standing, he vanished, making his way upstairs for his clothes. Slipping into them he came back down, looking along the bottoms of his feet for a moment to make sure that the healing process was going smoothly, and minus a few raw pieces and the entire bottom being hideously red and painful looking, it was going splendidly.

He made his way back out for the kitchen, bringing up a webpage in his laptop. How was he going to get a hold of John to let him know that he was awake?

He wasn't sure if John had sold the house -although all of his belongings being here still pretty much concluded that he did, indeed, still own the house- or if he'd even bought himself a new mobile. Again, knowing John as extensively as he did, he was almost positive the doctor had purchased a new mobile. And a fat load of good that did him, Sherlock didn't have one and the house didn't have a phone so that was purely out of the bloody question.

He could always make a page on that Facechatter site thing that John was on.

But that would be a colossal waste of his time.

Oh!

He sat back down and typed in a quick address. **The Blog of John H. Watson.** For some reason the doctor had been absolutely tickled when he began writing his silly little ideas on this page. Stories that seemed like twisted fantasies of real events. It made a good crime scene look like a bloody romance novel.

“ _He stood face to face with the corpse, a distant sadness in his eyes. The look of a man who knew what it was to share the kiss of death. A man who had died all too soon, mourning in his own ways another life lost before the proper time.”_ Sherlock read a loud from one of the random stories the clicked on. One of the newer uploads -though not the _newest. “_ What rubbish is this,” He muttered, resting his elbows on the table, hands clasped between his lips. “' _He was silent, but just for a moment -a silence I've guiltily felt glad for so sparingly few times before- and then he spoke. His voice was like honey and warm cream as he stepped away from the cold woman who once had laughed, and cried, and sat on the sofa watching rubbish movies as we all had._

“' _We're wasting time, John. Let's go.' Sherlock had a way of seeming off. Distant and cold and uncaring. He preferred to seem that way, actually, although, I had suspicions that had he been born in this era, the soft edges he had wouldn't exist. But a heart was a heart, and no matter how callous he seemed, I knew, without a doubt, that Sherlock Holmes had the most compassionate of hearts.”_ Sherlock trailed off, thinking about the words, his eyes skimming over the rest of the story, not bothering to read it.

He knew how he felt about such kind words now, but he wondered how he would have felt months ago -or...months before he crashed- about them. Back before he felt devoted to John. Before he cherished his friends company and yearned to be with him -and admittedly, was starting to feel a lot of anxiety about being separated from him at the moment. Would he have felt this warm, or would he have snorted and dismissed it as silly emotions by a man who was nothing but a thick, meaty, strong -yet sensitive- dangerous ball of emotions?

He shook his head, not caring about his girlish crushes. He was a grown man -albeit a dead and ancient grown man- not a frivolous girl.

Scrolling to the bottom of the page, he typed in his name above the comment section and typed a simple and plain comment into the box beneath it.

 

 

**I'm awake.**

 

 

He hit enter and waited, staring at the screen, expecting it to almost be instant.

That was when suddenly, the front door opened. His head turned, surprised at how soon he actually showed up -figuring he must have just pulled in when he sent the message. But when he saw who walked in, he kept silent.

It wasn't John. Instead, it was a rather plain looking woman -rather plain being an opinion sullied by the unnatural beauty of this day and age than it had been back when women weren't as beautiful. She was older, probably 65, maybe 70, and she smelled of Cinnamon Bismarck and hemp.

Ah.

That was who the smelled belonged to.

He stared at her as she came in, hanging her coat up by the door and slipping her shoes off to slip into another pair of slippers. After a moment or two, she made her way through the entertainment room and his way. Stopping in the doorway, she stared at him, her hands clasped in front of her reserved like.

“Oh, hello.” She greeted. “Sorry, John didn't tel me there'd be anyone here.” She replied, her voice sweet and kind and directed _right_ at _him_. He looked at her confused and a bit nervous. She could see him? That was...

“Oh, um, yes.” He closed his eyes for a moment, fingertips coming to his forehead as if trying to shield the sun from his eyes or massage the oncoming of a headache away. “I am...Hector Hissilks.” He replied, flashing her a quick smile, trying to put as much warmth in it as he could -to uneven out the indifference of her actually being there. “John didn't...tell me that...anyone else was...living here.” He replied, looking at her confused and a bit hurt.

“Martha Hudson, dear. Pleasure to meet you.” She smiled warmly. “Living here? Oh-oh heavens dear, no.” She laughed, lightly touching his shoulder. “No, I'm the housekeeper.” She replied. There was this...lively sparkle in her eye. Sherlock felt a rush of both clarity, confusion and relief flood over him all at once.

“The housekeeper?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Two questions, one, why is John not here to clean his own house? And two, why does he need a housekeeper for when he isn't here?” He turned, his eyes watching her very carefully.

“He hasn't really been staying here.” She replied honestly. “Says it's too lonely, so he's off visiting his sister, Harriet. Poor dear's lost most of her hair by now. Chemo isn't taking very well so he's been playing the part of the good brother.” She gave his shoulder a gentle pat before making her way into the kitchen. “Cuppa?”

“He's been lonely?” Sherlock hummed, feeling a slight bubble of happiness in a time he wasn't sure he should. Lonely because he missed him? _Him_ of all people.

Well, obviously, with their relationship the level that it was, it shouldn't have been that shocking or surprising at all. But it was just...the confirmation that he would be missed if he was gone. It was a confirmation he didn't get very much when he had died -save for Lestrade and the few half hearted tales the DI spoke of when he was sure no one was listening. “So, why procure the help of a housekeeper in his absence?” He turned, looking at her as she filled a rarely used kettle full of water and put it on the stove.

“Oh, mainly because of the cat.” She replied, turning and looking at him as she turned the stove on, letting the flames dance beneath the kettle.

“Ah, I forgot about the cat.” Sherlock admitted, looking back at his laptop. “So he'd gone to live with Harry. I hope that isn't putting too much strain on her. Although, after what had happened, I supposed spending time together would be ideal.” He hummed idly. Scrolling up, he refreshed the page, hoping that maybe John's reply would show up, but instead, all he got were a few others -Harry being one of them, Anderson another...a few people he had absolutely no interest in meeting ever.

“Oh no, he's not _living_ with her, dear.” The older woman replied, much to Sherlock's shock. “He's living with his girlfriend.”

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson get to know each other when they discover yet another terrifying member of the house hold.

**Chapter 21**

 

 

“You said he was with his sister?” He repeated, eyebrows furrowing, not believing he was hearing what he was hearing.

“I said he was _visiting_ his sister. He's been living with a Miss Molly Hooper; lovely woman and she's so sweet on him. I'm pretty sure they have a marvelous time if he keeps coming back. Military men are usually the most passionate.” She gushed, her hand over her chest, other arm cross across her stomach. She seemed genuinely happy for him, like it was the sweetest thing she could have ever witnessed.

Sadly, that sweetness left a bitter, poisonous taste in Sherlock's mouth, his head tilting to the side a little as his lips parted.

“Pardon?” He asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“It's no secret, no matter how desperately John wishes to keep it one. If I had as many passionate nights as those two had-” She stopped, drifting off as she -no doubt- thought about it, playing with the necklace around her neck. “well, I would still have a husband.”

She turned as the kettle began screaming, the sound mirroring his mind as he imagined John and Molly sharing the same...wild...passionate...

He couldn't. It made him hurt just thinking about it.

He couldn't blame John though. He was gone for a year, and feeling how much his body ached for him _now_ , after just waking up? But still, the thought killed. He didn't respond to that, instead, he turned back to his laptop, shaking his head.

He was trying to keep himself from thinking about it. From dwelling on the fact that right now, the man he loved -and the first person he let himself be vulnerable with to the extent he had- was off with...a woman they'd had problems with in the past- what the hell was wrong with him?

He brought up the email and typed in John's username and password, chewing idly on the inside of his lip as she poured a beaker of tea for the both of them. “Sugar dear?” She asked.

“Two sugar.” He replied quietly as he clicked on the inbox.

Scrolling through all of the emails John had, he began to tally all of the cases they missed out on. All of the jobs John couldn't do because he was gone; all of the people who died, or were missing, or had things stolen from them that he couldn't help with because he was gone.

Walking over, she put he cup of tea down for him before taking a seat at the table as well. No words were exchanged for a long moment before she finally spoke. “Is everything alright, dear?” She put her cup down and reached forward, resting her hand on his.

“Fine.” He replied simply. “Everything's fine. For the first time in nearly 110 years I'm at conflicts with myself for being bloody stupid -which as you might be able to tell doesn't happen often.. Being bitter at a man who I know is alive and has living persons needs so I can't blame him for that, going off and doing those needs while I'm here floating around. But who the bloody hell can be mad at him when I've been gone for an entire year unable to make sure those needs are met, so he found them in the arms of a woman he would have inevitably ended up with if I didn't exist in the first place.” He babbled, voice laced with hurt, anger and self loathing. His blue eyes burned with both anger and sadness as he felt his ridiculousness come to fruition. He didn't even care that he practically sounded like a madman, saying he was 110 years old.

Mrs. Hudson stared at him as he spoke, a look of concern on her face as she watched him babble, his face switching between a sarcastic smirk between words and crunched with anger on the next. When he finished, she didn't say anything right away, just staring at him as he trailed off, fingers running through curls, flashing off the caved in part of his forehead.

Suddenly her look of concern turned to one of shock as she stared at him, her hand going to her mouth, other hand pointing at his forehead.

“That's...now I know why you look so familiar!” She cried out, sounding both intrigued and horrified. He looked up confused, eyebrow furrowing. “You're Sherlock Holmes.” She leaned in, looking at him closely. He went rigid, freezing still as he stared at her. “You are! Oh,” She pushed herself to her feet, hands up as she made her way around the table, heading for the door.

“Wait, wait-” He turned to stand up, but when she turned back around and started coming back with her purse he stopped. Pulling from inside it a small photo-album, she took her seat again. Opening it, she pointed to an old photograph of the detective and Lestrade.

Sherlock stared at it in shock for a moment before taking the photo-album. He looked at the photo of when he was alive, a smart picture of him with his coat and pipe, Lestrade at his elbow. A small smile came to his lips as Mrs. Hudson leaned over.

“I got this album from an old woman I knew. She was my baby sitter and the Detective Investigators second wife.” She said, pointing to the photo, reminiscing. “She said that her husband was a great detective, but there was one who was even better. Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” She laughed lightly. Grabbing the album, she flipped the page, pointing to another photo of the detective, and beside him was a familiar face. One that brought sadness and loneliness to him. “I never could tell who this man was. Neither could Leslie, to be honest. Her husband never told her, always said it was too painful to talk about.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock replied, touching the picture of the larger man. A stern look on his face. “My older brother.” He added when she looked at him in confusion.

“Oh dear.” She frowned. “Are these painful? I-” She lifted her hand up, making to take it back. “I can put it away.”

“No,” Sherlock pulled it away, looking through them. “It's fine.” He replied, looking up at her. Turning the page, he saw another picture of Mycroft, thin and wirey and dead looking and he could only wonder if...maybe that had been after he'd died. A year or so, hairs turned grey and a great look of someone who had given up on everything. But beside the sag to his face, he looked no older than maybe one or two years.

He flipped the page again, more photos of him, a couple more of Mycroft, then a handful of photos that didn't originally belong to Lestrade. They were Mycroft's -he could tell from the delicate scroll of the handwriting on the lower right corner. But why would they have been compiled into this scrapbook?

He flipped the page and what he saw made him laugh. Light hearted, warm, but sad. “Mycroft Holmes, Lili Laveau-Holmes and their daughter Hyacinth Holmes. So he had a daughter.” He muttered. “A niece I never knew about.” He frowned. “Someone I've never met.”

“Oh and she was a lovely woman. Very very lovely our Hyacinth.” Mrs. Hudson agreed. “Very odd though. Very regal, very beautiful.” She nodded, hands cupped before her resting on the table as she stared off into the distance as if reminiscing on her.

“Was?” Sherlock looked at her, eyebrows furrowed as he flipped the page, a close up photo of the woman. And she was beautiful. High cheekbones, cold eyes with skin as pale as pearls and hair as black as night. Her hair curled, looking like a mess of black roses and lips as red as rubies.

“She died. Quite a horrific way too.” She sat up straight, bringing her hands to her lap. “She died in 1968 by the hands of a James Moriarty.” She replied. “He was involved with a great many drug trafficking and torment circles. Absolutely dreadful business and she fell into the wrong crowd. Apparently it was her drugs. She needed to sustain her habits, poor dear.” She turned her head, hand rubbing her chest. But the name tickled the back of Sherlock's mind for some odd reason. Like the driving of a nail.

His forehead crinkled as he silently whispered the name over and over and over again. “James Moriarty. James Moriarty. James-” Wait. His eyes widened with clarity. The visage of the psychotic man with the white suit standing in the livingroom flashing before his eyes for just a split second, then fading away to darkness. “No,” He whispered, voice quiet.

“No what, dear?” Mrs. Hudson looked up at him, her own forehead crinkling as she rested her elbows on the table top.

“James Moriarty, what became of him?” He stood up, pacing back and forth as he tried to figure out how this could have happened. It was too much to assume they were the same person, but for both James Moriarty's to be in similar crime circles?

“Oh, he passed away dear.” She replied. “Cornered by police near Bart's Hospital and shot dead. Good riddance, the man was a menace.” She explained sounding grateful, but that wasn't the news Sherlock wanted to hear. That wasn't the information that Sherlock wanted.

“What year did he die?” He asked, turning and looking at her, his fingers held up straight as if blocking the outside world from the corners of his eyes as he focused. She didn't respond right away, eyes rolling up to the ceiling as she thought, lips pursed as he hand rested on her shoulder.

“196...9? 1970?” She offered, not quite sure.

“So James Moriarty died near Bart's Hospital 44 years ago.” Sherlock confirmed, but it still didn't make sense. None of it made sense. If James Moriarty died 44 years ago, but the James Moriarty that kidnapped Harry was about 43-44-” He stopped, shaking his head as his eyes narrowed. “That can't be possible.” He mused, stopping dead in his tracks as he stared into the livingroom, staring at the ghost of the man in the white suit, staring at him mockingly. He walked forward, looking into the phantom man's eyes, feeling them burn a hole through his skull as their eyes connected.

“What isn't, Sherlock?” Jim asked, smile pressed into tight and pretentious lips.

“You being alive.” He whispered.

“Reborn.” Jim corrected, licking his lips.

“It doesn't work that way.” Sherlock insisted, taking a step to the right, circling him, Mrs. Hudson looking concerned from her spot at the Kitchen table.

“You think it doesn't, Sherlock.” The man joked, not bothering to turn and watch him.

“How?” Sherlock hissed, keeping his steps evenly paced, circling the mans image.

“Figure it out.” Jim played, eyes rolling back to look at him. “After all, you're oh so clever.” He sneered. Sherlock stopped, shaking his head as he tried to figure out how it could be possible. How it could have happened. Who James Moriarty really was. “Do you need a clue?” The man sang, stopping Sherlock in his tracks. “ _You will die, detective, for what you have done to me_.” The smug smile dripped off of the man's face, eyes whirling around to look back the detective.

It all came crashing back. The name of the man who'd killed him, James Moriarty who died all of those years ago, and the man who nearly killed John and John's sister.

“J.M. Magnussen.” Sherlock whispered.

The man vanished, leaving Sherlock standing in the middle of the livingroom, eyes wide as he thought over everything that had happened. J.M. Magnussen, the criminal who had been the crime lord in England for years before his crime ring was broken up by Sherlock and the man was sent to a high security asylum for the insane. He had managed to escape back into the world to find and exact his revenge on Sherlock after the horrendous care he'd received back when he was locked up.

Some how, he'd managed to continue existing, from one body to another. But how? How was that possible?

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson spoke from behind him. Her timid and concerned voice ripping him out of his own mind and dragging him back into the world around him. “Are you alright?” She asked.

“How...are you able to see me, Mrs. Hudson?” He asked, turning his head to look at her over his shoulder. The question took her off guard a little, causing her to stare at him confused for a long moment, mouth hanging open. She shook her head, shrugging her shoulder as she gave a quick look out the window towards the ocean.

“I've always been a bit touched.” She replied. “In the supernatural sense. You see, many years ago, my husband murdered a poor gay man in our house. Such a horrible horrible thing, but my Charlie insisted that it was because the man was pulling a move on him. Tragic really, I quite liked the poor boy.” She explained. When a look of irritation came to the detective's face, she swallowed the rest of the unnecessary words and continued on. “I believe firmly in reincarnation. Every soul is recycled, and every soul that isn't, is stuck here on earth until it can be.” She explained. “I think it's because of my acceptance of the spirits world that helps me see them. Poor things.” She cupped her hands.

“So, when did it start, after your husband murdered a homosexual or before that?” Sherlock asked flatly, wanting her to get her story straight.

“Oh much farther before that. I used to see them when I was little. Grew up in an old house that a lot of people died in. I could hear them whispering and knocking on the doors when no one else could.” She flashed a small, nervous smile. “Much like the knocking I hear here.” She added. But that little bit of added information confused the ghost, his eyebrows crinkling as the words escaped her lips.

“What knocking?” Cocking his head to the side, he turned it, listening. There was a very very light pounding noise. Very gentle, but it sent a shiver of ice up his spine.

“The knocking.” She repeated as if it were to clear anything up. “Behind the book shelf, in the library.” She pointed off across the livingroom. The ghost's blood ran cold, heart skipping a beat. Knocking on the basement door?

Whirling around he rushed across the livingroom and towards the office door, leaving Mrs. Hudson behind at the dining room table. Gasping, worried she might have said something wrong, she wiped her hands on her skirt and followed after him.

Pushing the door open to the office, she pushed her way past the threshold, stopping right beside Sherlock who just stood and stared at the bookshelf in worry. There was a knocking on the shelf, like wet knuckles on wood. The same level of hardness, same pace, never faltering, never slowing down, never relaxing. Like the pounding of a ceremonial drum. Water puddled out from beneath the door, soaking the carpet as it gathered.

Then just like that, it stopped.

Silence.

Sherlock held his hand out, putting his arm half out in front of Mrs. Hudson as if trying to keep her back -not as if she were trying to get closer to begin with. There was a jingling, a light thudding as the bookcase jiggled, and Mrs. Hudson took a step back.

“John?” A soft, deep, garbled voice spoke. “John, please open the door. I can't-” It creaked. The ghosts sight flashed like a television with bad reception, a dark mist seemingly pouring out of the cracks. Sherlock's heart started racing. “John-” It swung open a little, three, long, black fingers sliding out into the open air, but they stopped, not pushing the door open any farther as the sunlight beamed in.

“Mrs. Hudson, don't...move...” Sherlock warned, taking a hesitant step to the side.

“You don't have to tell me twice,” She whispered, staring at it. She leaned as Sherlock moved closer, just enough to see into the crack while keeping his distance. But what he saw made him stop; for the first time in a long time, he felt fear. Pure, white blooded terror as a single, wide eye peaked out at him, surrounded by pitch black.

“There you are.” It whispered.

The blinds let go, dropping and covering the windows, darkness spilling out and into the room to make it darker and the door started shaking, trying to push it open. Sherlock gasped, stumbling back just a little as his head whipped around, watching as the shade cast over the room was much darker than it should have been.

“Mrs. Hudson, go back to the dining room!” He ordered, but she was already turning, making her way out of the room and towards the kitchen. He ran forward, slamming himself against the door, the monsters fingers trapped in the way.

He forced his full body against it, the demon screaming as the crackling of it's fingers echoed throughout the room. With one more hard shove, the fingers fell to the floor, forcing it back behind the basement door once again, all of the darkness fading. Lifting his hand, he grabbed a lock at the top of the bookshelf and slit it up in place, the iron bar slipping up behind the head of a stag.

Gasping, he pulled away, staring at the basement door in horror. What was that? When did that get there? Was it from when he drowned?

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

“John?” It spoke. Sherlock felt his heart leap in fear and he turned around, making for the door, slipping back out into the living room.

“What the bloody hell was that thing?” Mrs. Hudson asked, looking at him worried, hands over her mouth.

“No idea.” He replied, moving to grab his tea. “It wasn't there when I came up.” Taking a drink, he closed his eyes, hands shaking as he tried to calm his nerves.

“I've noticed the knocking for a few months now. I've had no idea who or what it was, but it was always so quiet.” The older woman wrung her hands, looking at the ghost who was now a bundle of nerves.

“It's getting stronger.” He replied, putting the cup down. He remembered that there had been one more time that he'd died. A time he died before he drowned. The time he'd shot himself to prove a point to John.

That was the only time he'd actively died as a direct result of emotion for John. Perhaps-

The front door opened, both of them turning and looking at it as John came in, carrying a few bags. He smelled like strawberries and cream -a scent that pulled Sherlock from his fear back into his feeling of being betrayed.

“Hello Mrs. Hudson,” He greeted, not having yet looked up and seen Sherlock as he worked his shoes off. He hung up his coat and pulled his scarf off. When he turned to look at the older woman he froze, looking at the tall figure of the man he loved. He felt his heart leap, but there was something about it that made him feel guilty. “I...I hope the...cat didn't bother you much.” John replied, looking at Sherlock as John made his way in.

What the ghost was doing hovering out in the open was beyond him, and to be honest, it made him nervous. He wasn't sure how long he'd been back, given he hadn't been back himself in nearly a month, but for Sherlock to be present in front of other people was unusual.

“The cat was fine, John, but you failed to mention your ghosts.” She huffed, back stiffening. Immediately, John felt his stomach drop, his heart skipping a beat, but the word _ghosts_ didn't register as a plural to him. He forced a chuckle, although there was a look of nervousness in his eyes.

“What? I...what are you talking-”

“She knows I'm here, John.” Sherlock cut the bullshit for him. The shorter man dropped his gaze, lips pressed tight together as he felt both embarrassed yet relieved to hear that.

“How long?” He asked, dragging his tongue across dry lips as he looked back up at him.

“How long what?” Sherlock asked, turning to put the tea back on the table.

“How long have you been back?” The ghost didn't answer right away, keeping himself quiet as he debated on whether or not he wanted to let himself be as petty as he wanted, or spare John that horrid experience.

“I just came back today.” He decided on letting John get away with it. He was gone for a long while, he couldn't blame John for it -although he certainly bloody wanted to. “A few hours ago.” he admitted.

“It's...it's good to see you.” John said, a smile coming to his lips.

“It's good to see you too, John.” Sherlock replied. “And even more so knowing all of this time no cases have been solved. I'm sure Scotland Yard is having a field day.” He forced a bit of a smile. “Speaking of which, I have a new case for us. A woman entered an elevator in a local motel, vanished into thin air. A week or so later they found her corpse in the local water system underneath the motel.” John looked at him shocked, unable to believe that he'd just come back and already he wanted to run off to another case.

“I-I-Sherlock, no, I...I really can't.” He tried to turn him down gently. “I promised Molly that I'd go to dinner with her tonight.” He replied. Immediately, Sherlock's expression fell flat, his smile turning a bit bitter. Nodding his head, he grabbed his cup of tea and made his way over to the sofa.

“Alright then, have fun.” He said plainly. Mrs. Hudson looked at him concerned.

John turned, watching him as his mouth hung open a little, forehead crinkled. He chuckled a little, shaking his head as he watched him sit down. And even more shocking, Sherlock grabs the remote and turns the telly on. Sherlock never watched telly unless angry about something.

“Sherlock?” He walked into the livingroom, standing between the ghost and the television bolstering the food network. “What's wrong?” He asks, hands by his sides.

“Hm?” Sherlock turned his head away from the process of sauteing garlic and rosemary in butter and looked at the man he loved -although incredibly pissed at him. “Oh, nothing.” He lied, turning to look at the telly once more. John didn't say anything for a long moment, turning to look at the television as the standoffish responses of the detective started to fester inside of him. His anger was sort of like boiling water, starting off as just a simmer before the bubbles became larger, building the pressure up.

“Sherlock, I think I know you a little better than that. What's wrong?” John insisted, digging to get to the bottom of his lovers piss poor attitude. Grunting, Sherlock pushed himself off the sofa, putting his cup on the coffee table. He cut across the livingroom to the kitchen where his chemistry set was left and grabbed it.

“Please lock the basement door behind me on my way down.” He patted Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, giving her a light smile. She looked at him shocked, her eyes flickering back and forth between Sherlock and John, wondering exactly what it was that was going on, before it started to sink in.

“Oh Sherlock.” She groaned, sympathetically.

“What do you bloody mean _Oh Sherlock_?” John nearly snapped, but he held his tongue, watching as the detective strutted past him and into the office.

“Have a good dinner, John.” Sherlock insisted, ignoring his question, giving the man a gentle smile.

“No, no, you're not going to bloody walk out of here until you tell me what the hell is going on!” John followed him. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something? Oh, should I say tub?” Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, standing in front of the basement door. He didn't say anything right away, nor did he move. The light knocking on the basement door sending a terrifying chill up John's spine.

Reaching up, Sherlock pulled the lock down and grabbed the door handle. Turning, he looked over his shoulder and flashed him a semi-bitter smile. “Good night, John.” Pulling the door open, he slipped into the stairway before whatever it was on the other side could slip out and shut the door behind him.

Mrs. Hudson rushed in, grabbed the chair from behind the desk and stood on it, sliding the lock back up into the wall. John stared after the spirit concerned, angry and hurt as Mrs. Hudson climbed back down off the chair.

“You don't want to go down there, dear. There's a demon.” She informed nervously before shivering. “Very terrifying dear. Would you like some tea?”

“No.” John replied shortly, the anger setting in full force now as his blood boiled. “No I damn well don't-” He stopped, trying to keep from taking his frustration out on her. His fists were clenched by his sides, lips puckered as he ground his teeth. He hated it. He hated how everytime the ghost got angry he could just poof away and run from the topic without having to discuss it. He bloody hated it. “That pompous, dead piece of-” He bit his lip.

Lifting his hands, he forced a smile and stepped back away from the door. “Never mind. Never bloody mind. I'm leaving. If cheekbones decides to slither out of his hole, tell him I am gone and he has the house to himself again.” He snarled.

“Oh John, don't be like that.” Mrs. Hudson groaned, watching him as he turned and made for the other room. He grabbed his coat, not listening to her. He didn't bother to, and he couldn't.

“Good night Mrs. Hudson!” he hollered to her. Grabbing his car keys he whipped open the door and made his way out onto the porch, slamming he door behind him.

He nearly lunged off the steps, feet landing in the semi frozen mud at the bottom of the steps. He made his way across the yard to his car. Pulling the door open, he popped the key back into the ignition and turned it on and buckled up.

Fishing his mobile out of his pocket, he hit the redial button and held it to his ear, waiting for an answer as he backed up and turned around, making for the line of trees.

After three or four rings, Molly answered, sounding a little busy, but still sweet as ever. “John! Hello dear.” She greeted, her voice sounding like a chorus of angels. He could hear the blush among her words as she spoke. “So I hope you like Linguini.” She said, the sound the kitchen sink running in the background.

“I love it.” John replied, his smile feeling pulled tight because of the asshole inside.

“Good. I also hope you like cherry pie.” She added, sounding a little coy, “because that's what we're having for desert.”

“I was rather hoping I'd have you for desert.” he replied, pulling out onto the main road, flirting.

“I'm sure we can make arrangements to the menu.” She giggled, her shyness sounding adorable, even over the phone. He just wanted to eat her up. “You'll be here soon, right?”

“I'm on my way now.” He replied, smile at his lips loosening the further away from the tension he got. He shifted his weight, legs spreading as he pushed the speed limit, licking his dry lips as he imagined Molly's pale skin under the dim lights of her room.

“I can't wait to see you.” She whispered.

“See you in a couple minutes.” he replied. Reaching up he took his phone from his ear and hung up, stuffing it into his pocket. He freezes for a moment as he does, his eyes falling on the video tape he'd stuffed in the side pocket in the passenger side door. The white label across the front saying _Happy Weddings_. It brought back memories of the last time Sherlock and John were with each other. How content and happy they were -before things went tits up of course.

That tape had been in there for an entire year, only being touched to move it out of the way. He'd probably have to watch it soon, figure out what was on it. But not tonight, tonight, he was with Molly.

 

**Haunted**

 

He washed the spaghetti sauce off of the plates, rinsing them good as the warmth of Molly's apartment swirled around him. She stood behind him, her fingers brushing little pieces of hair from the back of John's neck as he worked, sending a shiver down his spine.

“What are you thinking about?” She asked, a wine glass in her left hand. She rested her chin on his left shoulder, fingers gently ghosting over his skin, working goosebumps up and across his flesh.

“Hmm...what I'm going to do to thank you for dinner.” He replied, a loving smile on his face as he looked back at her. Turning the water off, he wiped his hands dry on a hand towel before turning to face her. She smiled at him lovingly as he did, stepping back to give him room.

Once his hands were dry enough, he reached forward, resting his hands on her hips, pulling her close. “I take it you've already found a way?” She asked playfully, letting him pull her close so their bodies were touching.

“Oh God yes.” he let out a breathy sigh. Leaning in, he kissed her neck, pulling the wine glass from her hands. Biting her lip, she let her head roll back, her hair falling over her shoulders like fire. His hands reached around, grabbing her skirt and pulling it up till his fingertips touched smooth skin, and the folds of her bottom.

She was so warm and so soft, but everytime his fingers pushed past her bottom, slipping between her thighs, he kept expecting the smooth flesh as it descended into male genitalia, and it confused and upset him nearly every time. But he could never let her know that. He would never let her know that her pleasantly feminine body brought a little disappointment to him.

Reaching down, she pulled her shirt off, exposing her soft, pale flesh and he stared at it. Stared at the way it slid down her clavicle and sloped down to the cleft between supple breasts.

Leaning down, he kissed her right breast, right hand moving up to work on the clip behind her back, freeing her from the confines of her bra. The moan she let loose, her body quivering ever so slightly as the tension was released and her straps fell down her arms was enough to make his body throb in anticipation.

Foreplay was over.

Grabbing her legs, he hoisted her up onto his hips -much to her surprise- and carried her off to her bedroom where he spilled her out across the bed. He felt his heart pound in his chest, fingers grabbing at the waistband of her skirt as he fumbled with the buttons.

“John,” She gasped, her legs spread, heels propped up on the mattress as he pushed himself between her legs. He grabbed her hips hard, giving her a hard thrust against her panty covered lips, forcing a gasp from her again.

She had no idea where this sudden hostility came from, and to be honest, it scared her a little. And he didn't even notice.

Yanking her skirt down her hips and thighs, he tossed the cloth across the room, then her panties, pulling them off so roughly they left a slight redmark down her delicate thighs.

He was like an animal, and all she could do was watch as he pulled his shirt off and yanked the front of his pants down. In a matter of seconds, he was in her and her mind went fuzzy, back arching as he thrust into her roughly. She gasped, yelping as her fingers went down, grabbing at his hands which clung to her boney hips so tight they would leave bruises.

“Ow, John,” She whimpered. He pulled out again and thrust in just as hard, her jaw dropping as pain rippled through her. “ow, John, please go a little more gently.” She begged.

“Oh come on, I'm not going that bloody hard.” He laughed, panting a little. But when she lifted her head, look of pain in her eyes, lips parted, he realized that...perhaps he was going a little too rough. But he didn't want to hold back. He didn't want to go gentle, he was tired of going gentle, he wanted-

He stopped when he realized exactly what he wanted. Exactly what he craved, and exactly what Molly couldn't give him.

He wanted raw, sadistic, carnal sex. One that would hurt him with every hard thrust he gave. But he couldn't stop right now. He couldn't...

Leaning in he gave her a gentle kiss, bringing his hands up to her shoulders to hold her close. “Sorry love.” He whispered. He rolled his hips, thrusting gently. Nice, slow, gentle. She seemed to enjoy that more, moaning as he slid out of her before pushing back into her depth, her legs quivering as his hips met the backs of her thighs.

Her fingertips ran over his muscles, feeling his retired military body beneath her touch sent a shiver of pleasure up through her, her nipples hard.

John trailed kisses down her jaw, pecking down her neck and clavicle, across her chest and down her breasts till he reached her nipples. Parting lips clamped around them, hands wandering down her arms to her waist as he pulled her up closer to him. He sucked, tongue flickering across swollen buttons as he began to push his luck.

He started thrusting faster, the bed starting to creak a little. He listened to he reaction; more moan gave him permission to go harder, more whimper made him slow down.

He never had a problem with making love to Molly before. He always enjoyed it, actually. The feeling of her tightening around him, arms and legs curling around him like a koala on a tree branch. But there was something so boring about it now. He wanted to see the twitching of the flesh beneath him as he drilled himself in hard. His hips aching and cracking from such hard thrusts, and the voice below him screaming his name. Nails digging into his arms, back arching as his body shook violently.

God he wanted to hear screams.

He wanted to feel pain, and feel the pleasure from causing his partner pain.

Being begged to hurt them over and over and over and over-

He gasped, pulling away, arching as his hips shook, orgasming hard enough for his vision to blur with each pulsating wave of pleasure. He was vaguely aware of Molly's grasping hands beneath him, clawing at him as she cried out, soaking the blankets beneath her.

He came down, his heart fluttering with anxiety as he looked down at the pleasured face beneath him. It wasn't the face he wanted to see. He didn't want to see Molly's face, her thin lips or fiery red hair.

He wanted to see Sherlock.

He wanted to feel the violent and carnal love making between a sadist and a masochist. He wanted to complete Sherlock in the same way Sherlock completed him. He wanted rawness and red skin and teeth marks.

But then it hit him.

Like a ton of bricks, it hit him.

He knew why Sherlock was so upset with him.

Sherlock knew he was having an affair with Molly.

He knew.

But why didn't he bring it up? Why didn't he scream at him when he was there.

Unless...

“Oh no.”

 

 


End file.
